


To Champion Their Cause

by MidknightMasquerade



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anti-Sex Slavery, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sex, F/F, F/M, Freedom Fighters, Implied/Reference Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Purple Hawke, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidknightMasquerade/pseuds/MidknightMasquerade
Summary: "Well then, Fenris, I believe I only have one question left for you. Is that alright?" Fenris leans in, intrigued, but only nods. He appears to appreciate the request for permission. "What do you plan to do with your newfound freedom?"Fenris' eyes fall to his lap, somehow seeming vulnerable for the first time since they started. "I had forgotten that I am free now, that I can do as I please. Not once in a decade had I considered it, but now...now I know." His face flips up, that same burning resolution he recognized in Aveline now ignited inside of Fenris."I will fight for others who cannot free themselves."Hawke has sought a cause to fight for his entire life. Kirkwall crawls with crime, ridden by need and despair, yet no social injustice stirs his soul into action. Aveline has one last failsafe - the discovery of the recently-rescued sex slave, Fenris, could be the key to unlocking Hawke's inspiration. Between the Templars' prejudice and Tevinter's corruption, a revolution brews in the shadows. Perhaps a ragtag group of misfits can quell the conflict before it consumes the masses.[FenHawke] [Modern AU]





	1. A Chance at Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Today, I completed my first playthrough of Dragon Age II. Needless to say, I romanced Fenris, and fell in love with his character...although not in the same way Hawke had, obviously. I have not stopped sinking my teeth into every FenHawke fanfiction and artwork I can find for weeks now, and I felt the need to contribute to the fandom more so than a simple oneshot that ended tragically.
> 
> Here, I decided to tamper with the themes, concepts and lore of Dragon Age II to create a parallel world in a modern setting. There are no elves/dwarves/qunari, but there are mentions of magic (in the same sense that we would understand magic). The city places have been maintained. You will meet Templars, "Mages", slavers, and all sorts of other surprises along the way. References abound. I hope you'll join me along the journey to see what awaits us~

Sometimes, one finds stories that stick with them for a lifetime.

Each human has their own story to tell, from birth to burial, of the pain and pleasures they'd endured throughout their time in Thedas' surface. Most imagine their memoirs to read of heroic quests and legendary adventures that would turn the world upside down. For the better, of course.

Unfortunately, the pages of most people's stories spoke only of failed endeavors or mundane, mediocre existences ignoring the purpose they never pursued. What had happened to heroes, then? Where were the knights in shining armor astride their stallions to swoop in and save the incensed from their doomed fate? Why, when the world needed them the most, had all humans succumbed to self-satisfaction instead of self-sacrifice?

Hawke had never considered him a hero, never dared to deign himself anything more than a man with a mission that most might not agree with. How could he, when he had done...well, the details weren't necessary, were they? His hands had wrought wrongs and rights alike, and that was all he allowed himself to dwell on when sleep seemed impossibly distant. 

Despite his hope, his insistence that his epic start sooner rather than later, he could not quite seem to initiate his own adventure. After all, what does a hero rescue if no salvation is needed?

Then again, his newfound homeland could never claim to be a place free of iniquity. Corruption claimed the government, Magi met beneath moonlight to speak of sins yet to commit, and the Templars sought after shadows in the name of justice. But there was no justice to be had in a city like Kirkwall. 

Still, there were those who thought that hope had not yet died for their home, and that, he supposes, is why he finds such a curious message wedged into his mailbox without the required postage to send it through the system.

_Hawke,  
This is a matter of the utmost importance. Come to the station as soon as you receive this, and do not delay. All we be explained soon. For now, know this - an answer may have been found after all._

_Sincerely,  
Officer Aveline Vallen_

_p.s. Oh, and Hawke? Dress appropriately, please. I'll be introducing you to someone - and in a far different way from how Isabela 'introduces' people to one another - and I'd rather not have to explain why there are day-old pizza crumbs still in your beard._

With a grin on his lips, Hawke lowers the letter as a feeling of - what was that? Excitement? Anticipation? ...hope? - overwhelms his heart. He does not need to over-analyze its meaning, or second-guess this suspicion, for deep inside, everything screams out that this sole fact now holds truth: hope had come at last for Kirkwall.

His journey had begun.

\---

Hawke had considered sprinting to the station as soon as the note slipped out of his postbox, but upon reading Aveline's last-minute advice, he decided against it. His hole-ridden hoodie and sauce-smothered sweatpants rarely left a good impression on first-time guests. Not to mention, he dared not anger Aveline. Friend or foe, she ensured everyone remained aware that she was not a woman to be trifled with. Maker bless the man who marries her. He's in for a hard life.

Slipping into a scarlet button-down and a pair of black skinny jeans, Hawke left his home and started down the sidewalk for the station. The winter wind whips about him, causing Hawke to bury one hand in his pocket as he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket with the other. He can scarcely concentrate on what he's texting Isabela, but he knows he has at least made his point.

  
  


Hawke shoves his cell back deep inside his pocket, savoring the temporary relief from the swiftly-forming frostbite. Almost instantaneously, he receives a response. He should have figured - Isabela never left her phone for long.

  
  


He should have seen _that_ coming, too. You know what? Perhaps texting Isabela wasn't the best idea.

Without any additional time to berate Isabela for her continued - yet not usually unwelcomed - usage of innuendoes in the midst of serious conversation, Hawke finds himself at the steps of the police station. 

"The Keep", as the dimly-illuminated sign informed its visitors, had clearly seen better days. The glass of its doors still held cracks where neighborhood ruffians had thrown rocks, and the iron that barred the sporadicly-placed windows seemed so rusted it might dissipate if you so much as poked it. Even the entrance sign itself had damage, its "K" lost to thieves somewhere in time, leaving only "eep" in its wake. Hawke supposed that was appropriate.

Slipping inside, Hawke seems entirely unnoticed amidst the tizzy of the office. Officers in uniform fly about from left to right, still attempting to remain their composure, but clearly more unkempt than normal. The man managing the front desk scarcely acknowledges his existence, much less recognizes him, but Hawke knows he's seen him. Bran, as his laminated name badge reads, always regards every guest with an equal amount of indifference and cordiality. Hawke, however, he appears to have a particular disdain for. He wonders whether Aveline has anything to do with that. 

One eye flittering over to his form as he types, the receptionist simply offers, "may I help you?", before speaking no more. Hawke somehow doubted he was actually offering his services.

"Yes, although I don't think you would like to," Hawke comments, only half-caring as he unfolds the letter. Bran looks about ready to bite him. A nearby officer almost chokes on their coffee. "Aveline sent for me."

"That's _Lieutenant_ Aveline, to you." Bran's eyes skim the paper warily. He spends too much time reading what he clearly does not care about, likely searching for some reason to deny his request and send him away. Instead, he simply sighs and points down the hall as he resumes his work. "Down the hall, to your left. Do not dwell too long - she's a busy woman, today especially."

With a muttered profanity, Hawke escapes into the direction pointed out to him. He scans the name on each door until he recognizes one - "Captain Jeven". Yes, he vaguely recalls Aveline venting about what a - what were her words? - "real piece of work" her boss could be. Hawke imagined he would have chosen more colorful vocabulary to describe the man in question. Opening the door, he exclaims, "really, Aveline, you ought to stop calling on me so late at night. People will start to talk!"

Clearly, people already had, as he appeared to have interrupted a discussion between the officer and her coworkers, captain presumably present as well. Regardless, Aveline's eyes light up as soon as they spot him. "There you are, Hawke!" 

She approaches, narrowed eyes berating him, but smirk spread too wide to be serious. "Hush, and come inside. I have something that might interest you."

"Really, my dear, we've discussed this. Trust me, you don't have what I'm looking for." He winks at her again, and she slugs him lightly in the arm. The brunette guard beside her blushes, but her presumed captain coughs. Her gaze returns to its typical professionalism instantaneously. He ought to learn how she does that one of these days. It could come in handy.

" _This_ is...Hawke, then?" The older gentlemen inquires warily. They regard one another in kind, and Hawke finds him to be everything Aveline had described him to be. Graying hair combed back in a hairstyle far too outdated for the time with lips that pouted, and not in the pretty way, crowned a well-built body that stood too stiff. Again, not in the fun way. Hawke assumed he had, at one time, been an attractive man, more so than simply physically. Perhaps such was how he came to find himself in such an esteemed position today. 

All Aveline knows to do is nod. 

Jeven knows a lost cause when he sees one. "I...see." The captain clears his throat, and potentially his head, as well. "Well then, sir, what services can you offer to us, hmm?"

Hawke shoots a confused glance at Aveline, only to have her interject instead. "Sir, I believe Hawke here is exactly the type of person we require to report on our newest findings." Hawke's brows furrow, but she does not feel the need to fill him in yet. 

Jeven only grunts, looking as though he is about to deny her beliefs, but she beats him to the punch. "You know how hard the media has been on our force as of late. You wouldn't want the wrong news station to twist this against _you_ , now would you?" 

Jeven regards her with surprised defeat. Another grunt, followed by a flustered, "fine then, have it your way. But don't let me find that this friend of yours has sullied our name, or it will be your life on the line, Lieutenant." Without another word, the captain pushes through the two of them and exits.

As soon as the captain escapes, all too pleased of a smirk stretches across Hawke's face. "I must say, I've never seen you so cunning. Don't tell me I'm rubbing off on you."

Aveline appears as though she might snort with laughter, or is it derision? "For both our sakes, we better hope not."

"While I do appreciate such _wonderful_ company," Hawke begins with a sweeping gesture at the door, "do you mind telling me why I'm here? Or what this 'report' is that you need of me? You know I was never one to do all too well in school."

Aveline takes a step, leaning back against the nearby desk with a sigh. "Ah, yes, well..." Her eyes refuse to meet his, and Hawke worries she might have done something terribly wrong. Then again, this is Aveline, after all. He hadn't seen the woman so much as oversleep, let alone commit a serious sin. "I may have convinced my captain that you are a local reporter hoping to take on articles concerning humanitarian efforts and social justice." The expression she makes resembles more of a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar than an adult admitting a fault.

Instantly, her coworker eyes widen in disbelief. "Aveline, you can't be serious!"

Aveline sends him a bone-chilling glare, and Hawke knows the man can sense it shaking his marrows, for he steps down almost immediately. He felt a bit of pity for the poor soul. "Did you have any better ideas, Donnic?" 

The man, now known to Hawke as Donnic, remains silent. 

"As I thought."

Aveline approaches then, eyes pleading. "Please, Hawke, you're our only hope for this to turn out right. The damned media has turned against us in this city, painting us to be these...these _brutes_ instead of as defenders! I cannot have that, Hawke, I refuse." 

Anger rises up within her irises, but it is soon placated by a defeated despair Hawke has not seen in her for a long time. He does not desire to see it again. "...there are threats against us, Hawke. Whispers that the city schemes to turn their backs on us. We cannot allow this story to fall into the wrong hands, lest the reporters discover some way of disgracing us again." 

Fiery hair flips past his face as she faces him then, suddenly determined. Old Aveline is back again. "All I need for you is to interview a sole man and write about our experiences so that the world knows what we have done here has helped humanity, not threatened it. Do it and I shall leave you be. That is all I ask of you."

"That is...quite the request." Hawke chews his bottom lip, stalling for time. 

What was he to do? Aveline stood as one of his oldest - and only - friends. She scarcely ever asked him for anything, and he had always promised to repay her for her kindness to their family. Now that she needs him the most, did he plan to turn on her, too? Think, Hawke, think. "Alright, Aveline, say I am willing to do this. I interview this stranger, pretend I'm a reporter, write the article, and then - what? Purchase a printing press? Start a newspaper company? I don't exactly have the means to publish this."

Aveline's lips curl upwards. Clearly she has already thought this through. "Well, that's what we have Varric for. He has more connections than he has money, and we both know he has plenty to spare. I'm certain he'd help you of all people, especially for something so important to us." 

She...had a point. No one could diminish the massive fortune Varric had accrued, and he always supported those he trusted. For whatever reason, he had come to consider Hawke such a man. He could not escape her request.

"I don't know whether Varric will agree to this or not..." He pauses. Aveline's eyes shake in their sockets. Though he knows not whether she believes in the Maker, he's certain she's praying to every deity who would listen that he complies. Well, Maker? What _was_ the right thing to do here, exactly? What would Andraste do? ...what would his father do? "...but I will."

Aveline looks as though she might hug him, but decides against it. Good, that would've been awkward. "Thank you, Hawke." Simple words, but the sincerity pierces through the simplicity. She was never one for words, but genuine emotion always shone through her silence. He supposed he served as a perfect counter to her, then. They made a good team, didn't they? "I owe you one."

Donnic sighs, mumbling something about how she had dragged him into this, before handing him a pad of paper and a pen, presumably to take notes throughout the interview. "I highly doubt you'll need more than half a page." Hawke regards him with a raised eyebrow. "He doesn't talk much...or at all, I'm afraid."

Aveline already leads the way out of the room and down the hall to their destination. She knows better than to turn her gaze to the death glare Hawke sends her. "I might as well have agreed to interview a mute... " Hawke mumbles, but Aveline does not bother to respond. She's grown accustomed to his caustic talk. "Mind telling me just who it is I'm about to interview, then?"

The party pushes past a pair of gossiping guardsmen as they enter deeper into the facility. Clearly, Hawke should not have entered here on normal means, as every eye now rests on him. 

Aveline shoos away their suspicions with a stone-cold stare. "His name is Fenris, a former sex slave of one of the Tevinter Magi - that group of government officials supposedly controlling gangs and other less reputable company." She flashes a badge against a scanner, and ushers Hawke further in, lowering her voice to a whisper. They must be getting close. 

"We've been working undercover on a case recently relating to the sex trafficking industry that runs rampant in Tevinter. Apparently, they're in the process of relocating certain slaves to Kirkwall. Luckily, we caught one of the ringleader's lackeys last night." As her explanation comes to a conclusion, so too do their travels. Realizing the levity of the interview, she attempts a joke. "He has tattoos. Lots of them. You like tattooed men, don't you?"

Hawke groans, his disgruntlement only increasing as Donnic shoots him a bemused smirk. "Really, Aveline, leave the teasing to me." 

With a chuckle, she pushes open the door and beckons him into the room beyond. "Just remember, Hawke. He's a human being. Speak to him as if meeting a new friend for the first time. I'm sure he'll open up to you - people always do."

With that, the interview had now begun.

\---

It takes all of two seconds for Hawke to come to the conclusion that Fenris was anything but ordinary.  
He was always completely and inexcusably obstinate.

Hawke considered himself a man who had a handle on how most humans acted. He was no therapist, of course, but he understood how people worked, why they behaved the way they did on a daily basis.

Fenris, however, remained an enigma to him. In the whopping nine seconds he'd had to prepare for this pretend report, he had assumed the man before him to be more...well, more of anything, really. He'd watched documentaries on rescued slaves of every kind before, all of which featured overly-emotional, mentally-scarred men and women embracing their family members once again at their reunion. He wondered whether those documentaries dramatized real events or whether Fenris really ought to play poker with a face like that.

His answers come as short, crisp descriptions without any emotional backing to provide the impact Hawke would need were this to work. 

"Who imprisoned you?"  
"A man."

"His name?"   
"Danarius."

"How long had he imprisoned you?"  
"At least ten years."

"Had he hurt you?"  
"What do _you_ think?"

Hawke reclines in his chair, rubbing his temples with the back of his ballpoint. His frustration seems to have spread to the others in the room, too. Gritted teeth greet him as he steals a glance at Aveline. Still, she bites her tongue. Hawke thanks the Maker for that.

Donnic, on the other hand, seems at a complete loss of how to help. Perhaps he worried more for Aveline's eventual wrath than for Fenris' compliance. Hawke couldn't blame him.

He needs something to salvage this with. Information without emotion would fail to influence the public. They need pain, they need passion! What would trigger that in someone so surprisingly collected? _Just remember, Hawke. He's a human being. Speak to him as if meeting a new friend for the first time_. Wise words, from a woman who might throttle the same men she rescued only a day ago. It was worth a shot.

"So, Fenris..." Hawke starts, leaning forward in his chair with his hands steepled atop of one leg that stood propped up against the other. His eyes scan the other for a source of conversational inspiration. Fenris registers the change, but does nothing to acknowledge it beyond a careful watch on the other's gaze as it falls towards the markings that mar his skin. _You like tattooed men, don't you?_ "...how did you get your tattoos?"

Aveline buries her face in her hands. Donnic regards him with utter disbelief. Fenris merely snarls. Somehow, the anger did not seem directed at him. "They were a 'present' from my master." Slender fingers trace the lines like roots along his veins, shuddering at the touch. "He desired to mark me as his prized possession, set me apart from the rest. He succeeded." 

A moment of silence passes between them. "It is difficult to escape from someone when you stick out like a swollen prick."

"Then thank the Maker that you do." The words slipped from his mouth before Hawke had the chance to even register what he had thought. 

Veridium eyes widen, but they do not maintain the steeliness they had only seconds before. Lips do not part, awaiting an explanation. 

Hawke knew when to spot an opening, and he expected to claim it. "Think about it - had you not stuck out so much, Aveline might never have heard the report of a stranger who spotted you. The police might never have even known that you existed, and they never would have known where or how to save you." Hawke eases his face, relaxing the tension of his expression until a smile overtakes the grimace, "...you're safe now."

Fenris regards him in silence for a moment. He says nothing as he leans back, fingers scratching at the tip of his chin in thought. "I...had not considered that." The fingers stop their stroking only to return to his arms. Hawke does not miss the wince when coming into contact with the ink. "Perhaps you're right. I suppose I should thank the Maker for His twisted sense of humor."

"I'm sure Andraste could say the same." 

Fenris scoffs at that, and Hawke cannot determine whether it's condescension or if that's his form of laughter, but he does not back down. He cannot stop when the defenses have finally fallen. Hazel eyes shoot towards the clock in the corner of the room. Their time together had almost come to a close. He had to act quick. 

"Well then, Fenris, I believe I only have one question left for you. Is that alright?" Fenris leans in, intrigued, but only nods. He seems to appreciate the request for permission. "What do you plan to do with your newfound freedom?"

For a moment, Fenris only blinks in response, and Hawke wonders whether he had stepped on another land mine. Fenris eyes' fall to his lap, somehow seeming vulnerable for the first time since they started. "I...had not thought of that, either." White hair too long to be comfortable flops about him as he shakes his head. "You are full of surprises." Hawke chooses to take that as a compliment. 

"I had forgotten that I am free now, that I can do as I please. Not once in a decade had I considered it, but now...now I know." His face flips up, that same burning resolution he recognized in Aveline now ignited inside of Fenris.

"I will fight for others who cannot free themselves."


	2. Before the First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after their initial encounter, Garrett reunites with Fenris at a First Day's Eve affair hosted by Aveline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, somehow I'm starting my new year off sick as a dog (er, mabari?), so I had a handful of extra time to churn out a new chapter. Consider it a present to celebrate the new year, from me to all of you! :)

My, much could change in a year.

In an unexpected twist of fate, the officer's arguably-illegal actions led not to grievous retribution, but to inexplicable exaltation amongst the mundane and money-grubbing alike. Much to the merchant prince's chagrin, Hawke convinced Varric to use his connections to spread the story like wildfire across all forms of social media. With the proper publicity (and a stack of well-placed cash in penny-pinching hands), the story could start a revolution.

The article became an instant internet sensation, accessible on the front page of every site this side of Thedas. Thousands scorned the actions of the Tevinter government. Their outrage lit the wick of indignation deep within them where once nothing had dared to burn at all.

Despite Kirkwall's unified cries, Tevinter took the article none too kindly. Clearly, their decision to spread their slave trade throughout other city states harmed them more than it had helped them. Although hired hands had sought to uncover the article's author, no information could be discovered. 

Aveline had hidden their tracks seamlessly. Hours upon hours she had scoured every inch of information for any trace that could lead Tevinter back to either of them. When she at last acquiesced to its distribution, only one edit needed made - "change your identity". Hawke had not understood the need for a pseudonym. Aveline still insisted. "For your own safety, find another name." 

With the softest of smiles, she offered a suggestion. "You know, Hawke has a nice ring to it. After your father? I am, after all, the only one in all Kirkwall who still knows you by that name. Here, only Garrett Amell exists. Hawke - why, he's an enigma."

While Garrett Amell reveled in anonymous success, Fenris fell off the face of the earth. Aveline explained that, oftentimes, those adjusting to society again need time to disappear. Trauma takes time to recover from, after all, and one cannot acclimate themselves to society when their wounds still leaked. In this case, both literally _and_ metaphorically speaking. 

Hawke had asked kindly for Fenris' address, solely to send him a thank-you card, as he planned to do with any and all of his future clients (or at least that's what he had assured Aveline of one too many times to sound convincing). Aveline, unfortunately, could not comply. She had overstepped her boundaries once already by bringing Hawke into unauthorized areas within the station. Distributing the personal information of former slaves? She might as well serve her skull on a silver platter.

Then again, potential unemployment appeared impossible for Aveline now. Her new position secured her, or so he assumed. Thus, with the increase of income, she had decided to host a party for coworkers and past clients alike. Well, and Hawke, of course. For old times' sake.

_My Dear Hawke,_

_You have been cordially invited to attend the annual Vallen First Day's Eve Affair on the 31st of Haring. We welcome guests from eight o'clock at night to two o'clock in the morn. Dinner and drinks will be provided, along with an assortments of snacks and refreshments. Dress as comfortably or as formally as you would like. Please respond promptly with a "Yes" or "No" as to whether or not you plan on attending. We hope to have the pleasure of your company._

_Yours Truly,  
Captain Aveline Vallen_

She certainly seemed to take pleasure slipping her newly-acquired title into every conversation she could. Hawke wondered whether she enjoyed that as much as she insisted on scribing letters instead of sending emails like a normal woman. Aveline, normal? Not likely. Still, he supposes he ought to thank her.

Her letters had a way of seducing destiny into action.

\---

As soon as he enters her apartment, Hawke wonders whether Aveline knows the meaning of "affair".

A heaping handful of supposed friends and those still strangers to Hawke shuffle absently about the area, separating themselves into tiny circles throughout the room. Perhaps her friends were as socially awkward as Aveline herself. He couldn't doubt it, judging by the stiffness of the company she kept. Then again, he noticed that not a drop of alcohol filled their glasses. No wonder everyone refused to laugh or interact or, oh you know, behave like normal human beings at a social gathering.

Briefly, he retrieves the invitation from his pocket to reread it. Oh yes, the promise had been made. Drinks were to be served - and plenty of them. Thank the Maker. He loved Aveline, but he highly doubted he could spend all of First Day's Eve entirely sober in her home. 

Her house, at the least, looked...decent. Minimalistic, even for his standards (which, truthfully, weren't much), but not necessarily _bad_. Hawke knew she had no eye for design, but the furniture was of a fine quality. Additional chairs and seats had been arranged neatly throughout the apartment to allow enough space for everyone present and then some to sit comfortably. At least she had organizational skills on her side, which was more than he could say for himself. 

Still, despite the distinct style of Kirkwall overwhelming the majority of furniture, little touches of Lothering highlighted the tiniest spaces of the apartment. The town banner hanging above the mantle, a statuette of a wishing well sitting atop the kitchen counter, the wooden windmill figurine on a shelf far too out of sight for most to notice. But he did not miss a single detail. So, Aveline maintained some sense of sentimentalism after all. 

Aveline had been entertaining (or rather, _attempting_ to entertain) a familiar face on the far side of the apartment - Donnic, if he recalled correctly - when she notices his arrival. She excuses herself midway through a fake chuckle to trudge over to him, face falling downwards immediately. "Thank the Maker, you've arrived."

"Trouble in paradise?" Hawke simply smirks at the icy stare he receives in response to that. That was as normal as Aveline could get, he supposed.

"You haven't the slightest idea." Her shoulders droop as she exhales a long-withheld sigh. "The Deputy Chief kept me late today to file paperwork, because the man clearly has no friends of his own to spend First Day's Eve with."

Hawke chortles at that. An angry Aveline proved more entertainingly resentful than reality television. 

"I hadn't any time to come home and decorate the place beyond a handful of lights and streamers Bethany bought for my birthday. Remind me to repay your sister one of these days. As if that wasn't enough," at this, she pauses to retrieve her cell phone from the breast pocket of her button-down, "the man meant to play bartender tonight dropped out at the last second. Said he had some sort of bird problem to take care of? Damn that Zevran. I had to resort to...a less desirable replacement."

Hawke had no time to ask. As if on cue, the door to the apartment slams open, scaring at least half of the guests into stunned silence. "Alright, everyone, time to get the party started!" 

Hawke would have known that voice anywhere. His eyes widen with bemused surprise. Aveline scarcely manages to shrug. 'Not a word', she mouths. Without needing to turn to know their owner, two arms encircle his neck and crawl down to his torso as a seductive voice whispers into his ear. "Hey there, handsome. Come here often?"

"Isabela." Hawke at last acknowledges her, turning to actually embrace her before continuing his half-hearted berating. "Now who let the tramp into the lady's house?"

"I could ask you the same thing, you know." Her attempted insult is only reinforced by the crinkling of her nose as she appraises his outfit. Apparently, she has no taste for white button-downs or ebony vests or that extremely expensive watch Carver may or may not have stolen but swore was a gift he bought with his own wallet. Oh well. Either way, it was his now. "What in the world are you wearing, darling? Did Leandra pick that out for you?" 

Tilting her head to the side, Isabela's eyes narrow with a pouted lip. Certainly, she'd hoped to appear more critical than cute. It hadn't worked. "No, no, it had to be Bethany. Poor girl's never shown an inch of skin in her life." Isabela immediately sets to work rolling up his sleeves, ruffling his hair, and unbuttoning one too many buttons of his shirt. Hawke pops only one back into place.

"I picked this out myself, thank you very much." Hawke's eyes dart down to where the tightness of her low-cut cocktail dress threatens to suffocate her breasts. Isabela does not miss the direction of his gaze, appreciating the attention. "I see you're ever the epitome of modesty." 

Isabela giggles, pulling the bottom of her dress up and the top down. Hawke hadn't realized doing so was still possible. "Guilty as charged." 

Unamused, Aveline almost gags. Hawke wonders whether she actually might throw up. He wouldn't doubt it.

"As much as I do appreciate seeing you, how in the world did you wind up here? I can't imagine you mingling with big wigs and law enforcement." _More importantly, I can't exactly imagine Aveline inviting you_. The thought need not even be vocalized. Everyone understood - and agreed. "Not exactly the company you like to keep."

Isabela steals her first look around the room, shrugging. "Mmm, I wouldn't mind the handcuffs..." No one is surprised that her mind wanders there of all places. 

"But if you must know, Aveline asked me to come tonight." Hawke's eyes shoot across to Aveline, questioning. She says nothing, face stone cold. "Don't look so shocked! She'd never invite me willingly - and I'd never come, of course. I'm playing barkeep tonight." At that, she holds up a collection of alcohol bottles and shakes them in the air. The action garnered the attention - and excitement - of many an attendee.

"I might need a drink by the time this night is done," Aveline spits, already stalking away back to Donnic. Isabela seems to note that little detail with interest. "Spill those bottles and you'll be scrubbing stains out of the floor for a week." 

With Isabela, stains could show up anywhere. The floor was the _least_ of Aveline's worries. Hawke hoped she had thought to lock her bedroom door and hide the key where Isabela could never locate it.

"No promises," Isabela whispers as she slips behind the makeshift bar. She sets to work displaying the various bottles of booze available, while Hawke lends a helping hand. She regards him with a mouthed 'thank you' as he crouches behind the counter, already schmoozing with the customers that crowd around her. 

"I see she's as hospitable as ever," Isabela muses in between buyers. "Honestly, she ought to shag that hottie she hasn't stopped talking to all night. He might pull the plank out of her ass." 

At that, both peek out from behind the bar to scout out her progress. Donnic clutches his alcohol as if his life depended on it, taking swigs all too big to be enjoying the conversation. They cannot make out all that Aveline is saying, but snippets reach their ears. Blacksmithing, the weather (how original), and...marigolds? _Good gods, girl._ "...on the other hand, maybe not."

Isabela can't help but hum a laugh at the way they interact, pouring two glasses of champagne despite the fact that no customers are present to order any. "You know, she might not be the only one in need of a little matchmaking magic." Liquor meets her lips as amber eyes meet his.

He should have seen this coming. "Ah yes, what better way to spend First Day's Eve than getting hammered with your high-maintenance host and then screwing one of her coworkers or clients?" 

Isabella huffs. "Well _someone_ needs to get laid tonight." She settles against the counter, arms resting against its top as she scans the crowd. Clearly, she locates someone of interest, for her face turns feral. Hawke thinks twice before making a cougar joke. "And if I weren't working the counter, you best believe I'd set my sights on long, tan and tattooed over there."

Hawke follows the direction her finger indicates until he reaches someone so familiar set apart from the rest of the people. An olive jacket conceals a white undershirt, the sleeves of which extend to half-gloved fingertips gripping a glass of wine. Lips stretched downwards into a disgruntled grimace, eyes that narrow at the sight of whatever they witness, tattoos that twist, winding round and round the thoroughly-hidden skin. Hawke knew him. He would have recognized that ink anywhere. 

"...Fenris?"

Now, Isabela grins for an entirely different reason than she had before. "We have a winner! I wonder where you met this mysterious stranger, hmm?" Another ounce of alcohol sloshes about her mouth before she adds, "I have to hand it to you, he's better-looking than the last one you slept with."

A groan escapes him as Hawke rubs his temples with fervor. As if Isabela wasn't enough of a headache on her own. "Honestly, Izzy, could you not criticize my choice of partners for two minutes?" He pauses as she shrugs, choosing instead to simply admire the view. 

"...or attempt to seduce potential ones?"

"You're no fun." 

Isabela pouts before shoving the champagne into his hands and shoving him out from behind the counter. "It's a party, you know. Aren't you supposed to socialize with people at these things? You ought to get out there and figure out which one of us your inkubus favors. By any luck, he might like us both." 

Hawke would resist her, but he knows better than to struggle against Isabela in this stage. He'd rather not wind up with a black eye and a voicemail filled with potential Grindr dates she'd set up for him. Not after last time. 

"Take the drink, it's on the house. For luck - you ought to get some." One wink and she's off, hoping he gets off.

Isabela all but shoves him across the room, stealing more than a little attention away from the idle conversation and white noise of the television blasting outdated holiday tunes. Honestly, all _he_ wanted for Christmas was for that woman to stop pretending she can still sing. 

Setting aside the songs on the screen, Hawke steels himself for his encounter with Fenris. Would the man even recognize him? Their first introduction had been about a year ago now. Even then, Hawke hadn't exactly told Fenris anything about himself. Should he reintroduce himself? Would it be better were he to pretend they'd never met at all? Maker, he hated awkward introductions.

"...Hawke?" 

The inquiry caught the man in question off-guard. Fenris stands propped against the wall before him, wine glass half-empty, with the most inquisitive look on his face. Well, that answered at least one of his questions. "You are...Hawke, yes? From the interview?"

"And here I thought you wouldn't remember me." That was charming, right? "I suppose I never really introduced myself. Garrett Amell, at your service...and everyone else's service in Kirkwall. Seems I'm always needed around here." He extended his free hand towards Fenris. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Fenris."

His companion seemed pleased that he had remembered his name. Hesitantly, Fenris shook the hand offered to him, but withdrew it almost immediately. Not one for touch, huh? No surprise there. 

As the other's words register, Fenris' brow furrows. "So... _not_ Hawke, then?" Fenris sputters for a moment, searching for the right words. "When I read the article, it listed the author as Hawke. I...assumed it was you. I must have been mistaken."

Ah, right. That. Better think fast, "Hawke"! 

"Simply a pseudonym - I use it for all of my published pieces. It keeps the audience interested. People appreciate a sense of mystery." Well, it wasn't a total lie. All one of his published pieces bore that name, and the Tevinter government was guessing who he was.

Fenris nods, mouth opening in an "O" to express his understanding. "I see. Garrett it is, then."

Hawke swiftly takes a sip of the champagne, thanking the Maker for such quick thinking. "I must say, pleased as I am to see you, I'm equally as surprised. You don't strike me as the party animal type." With a raise of his eyebrow, he concludes, "or is there more to you than meets the eye?"

Fenris actually chuckles at that. Hawke considers how different his laughter sounds from anyone else's. Deep and raspy, it's...almost painful, in a sense. He wonders whether that Danarius had anything to do with the quality of his voice. "Perhaps there is, but not at parties. I owe Aveline a favor. I thought I might at least attend this as thanks." 

Eyeing the wine still leftover, the ends of one lip curls upward. "And...I heard there'd be quality wine." Finishing off the remainder of his liquor, he licks his lips before remarking, "she tells no lies."

"Aveline couldn't lie about someone's surprise birthday, let alone liquor. She's quite serious about her spirits." Both turn their attention to Aveline, now hunched over the counter clutching a bottle of beer as Isabela pats her back. Before Aveline swats her away, that is. Donnic is nowhere to be seen. "...as you can see." 

They both laugh at that, sounds communing like thunderbolts and river streams. "Are you repaying Aveline for allowing you to meet me? That's a hefty debt, you know."

Fenris seems not to know how to respond, so he simply snorts. "I believe _she_ owes _me_ for allowing that interview." 

Hawke feigns offense with a hand to his heart. In truth, his ego had been bloodied by such callous dismissal of his humor, but he had become accustomed to it. 

Fenris notices, shifts attention to something more pleasant. Had he...concerned him? "You know, you were the only one who hadn't used me for your 'fifteen seconds of fame', so to speak." 

Hawke perks up at this, tilting to his head to the side. Fenris regards him as though he were a puppy, face softening slightly at the sight. "Most media could have twisted that article into a hate crime against the Tevinter, or invasive investigations based on a sole eyewitness report. You...told my story. My life, my struggles, my dreams. I...had not expected that. Aveline told me I could trust your character. You were right - she does not lie."

Hawke swears he can feel the heat crawling to his cheeks. Sure, he could create humorous distractions out of any situation, but genuine compliments? How did one worm their way out of that to defend against the fact that they were floundering for a sincere way to accept them? "I, ah...thank you, Fenris. That means more than you know." 

Hawke takes a bigger swig than he means to, chokes on the champagne. Fenris smirks, but chooses not to mock him. In that moment, at least. "Truth be told, I hope to tell stories like yours for a living. I've been looking for a cause to advocate. Yours, well, it's stuck, for whatever reason. Perhaps I could create a career out of social media exploitation and viral clickbait. After all, all those Youtubers do it."

It takes him a moment to discern whether Hawke is serious or teasing, but he seems to at least understand the gist of the joke. Perhaps humor hadn't always been the best idea. "That you could." At least his response _seemed_ genuine?

"As much as I love being bragged about," Hawke continues on, thanking the Maker that he could divert the attention off of him for now, "what about you? How has Kirkwall treated you, hmm? Better than Tevinter, I hope." 

"It wouldn't be hard," Fenris mutters, words acidic on his tongue. Something within him shifts then, hands shifting to trace the threads of ink across his skin. Hawke remembers the moment when their prior conversation changed, too. This time, however, Fenris withstands the touch. He does not shake beneath the brush. "Although...not well, either." 

He pauses, instinctually motioning to take a drink, only to find his cup empty. Hawke pities him. Alcohol makes everything easier, and Fenris has had it hard enough already. "I have had to hide myself from slavers. Supposedly, Danarius' 'servants' - amongst others' - still lurk in the city. I can't be too careful. Thankfully, Aveline and Donnic have aided me more than I can understand. It's thanks to them that I even have a job at all...although I don't think Aveline approves of it."

That wasn't surprising. Seeing as Fenris possessed no real form of identification or educational background, the only careers available could never exceed Aveline's lofty expectations. "Let me guess - traveling salesman?"

Fenris laughs aloud at that - a single "ha", but at the least, it's genuine. It seems different from other's laughter. Plenty of people faked their feelings to spare another the pain of realizing, no, your joke was _not_ as funny as you thought it was. At least with Fenris you always knew where you stood...even if he wished you stood at a distance. Not even Hawke could sound as sincere. Charm and charisma meant nothing when compared to sincerity. 

"Quite the chatterbox, aren't I?" He shakes his head until the hair flops about him and he has to readjust it, pushing it back behind his ear. "No, I don't suppose I would do well in a field dealing with people. I'm already ruining your night, no need to bother the neighbors who already ignore me."

Greater suffering exists in that statement that should. Ruin his night? Hardly. He doubted Fenris would believe him even should he disagree, but he never had the chance to. A subtle shadow sprints through the fields of green irises, disappearing behind tanned tear ducts. Garrett tracks its every step.

"...tattoo artist."

And now Hawke understands. Or at least, he hopes he does. "No wonder Aveline doesn't approve - she couldn't stand for someone to have a more exciting job than she does!" 

Fenris does not laugh at this, but Hawke thinks he spots an ounce of gratitude glimmering in green eyes. 

"Donnic, though, surprises me. I hadn't pictured him to be the type for tattoos." Hawke scoffs, swirling the last of his champagne about before downing it. "Aveline sure knows how to pick 'em..."

Fenris simply shrugs at this. "She objected, of course...until Donnic explained he wanted to honor his fallen mother." Ghostly tattoos stretch a little thinner as his lips spread wider. "Amazing how quickly one can change their mind when the dead are involved."

Hawke can scarcely keep it together, and although he does not see her, he _knows_ Aveline stands in a corner scowling at him, but he cannot bring himself to care because the mere thought of Aveline's reddening cheeks as she blusters out a back-handed apology in the midst of that awkward encounter is enough to make him spit out his drink. Luckily for Fenris, he managed to maintain his composure. Or was that luckier for Hawke? Champagne and saliva didn't exactly make for a positive impression, now did they? 

"Seems Donnic has a sly side to him. You two will get along well, then." Hawke collects himself, clearing his throat as he scans the room for miss murder. Thankfully, the glare she gives him only manages to minutely unnerve him. Better than usual, at least. 

Returning to his usual charismatic self, Hawke dons a charming smile and adds, "Then perhaps I ought to pop into the parlor. I could use some ink."

Hawke had anticipated smoldering eyes understanding the true meaning of his statement, a flirtatious smile to match his own, and the desire to see him come. But this was Fenris. Unexpected, unpredictable Fenris. For a moment, his face falters and he looks as though he might reject him, but Hawke will never know. A hand slips around his shoulder, shutting them both up, and tugs Hawke closer to its owner. Hawke cannot help but notice how intense Fenris' stare becomes then.

"My, my, who is this, love?" Isabela, of course. Always making an extravagant entrance. Fenris stiffens at the last word she speaks, his original demeanor returning almost instantly. Hawke makes a mental note to thank Isabela later for setting his progress back an entire year. "You two seemed to be having quite the romp together over here, I thought I ought to join in."

Fenris raises an eyebrow at her word choice, although he seems to put together quite quickly the type of person Isabela is. Not that it's hard to - she leaves little to the imagination. "Fenris, this scantily-clad enchantress is Isabela. Isabela, this is Fenris, my..." Hawke pauses then, and Fenris stares at him in anticipation, eyes widening as he awaits a response. "...friend." 

Fenris' eyebrows raise, and the tension in his spine slacks. Correct choice. 

"You're right - the 'romper' and I were having a wonderful time together. Although I only speak for one of us." 

Fenris does not deny his claim.

Isabela extends the hand not containing...Maker, what _is_ that?...to Fenris, fluttering her eyelashes. Were Fenris the type of man Hawke was one hundred percent positive he could not possibly be, he knew Isabela would have had him under her spell instantaneously. 

Fenris reaches out to take the hand with great reluctance. He drops it suddenly, as though asked to touch a trash bag. The upturned nose does nothing to aid his cause. 

Still, Isabela does not falter. "Enchanté, Fenris."

"Yes...charmed, I'm sure." He studies her for a minute as she releases Hawke from the crook of her arm, recognition sparking in his irises. "Ah, now I remember. You're the bartender, right?" He raises his glass to her, more eagerly now than before. "I ought to thank you. The wine was surprisingly delicious."

Without request, Isabela swipes the empty cup from Fenris' hand and replaces it with a glass of gods-know-what before he can protest. "You can't be drinking the cheap stuff! Here, try this. Much more _exotic_." 

Fenris sniffs hesitantly, as though he would rather drink homegrown Gatorade before whatever the concoction was. Still, he does not refuse her, and for that, Hawke is grateful. Isabela could be such a sore sport.

Fenris lifts the drink to his lips, taking the smallest sip, and his eyes immediately expand to twice their regular size. Hawke hopes that's a positive sign and not an ill omen. "This is...surprisingly good." After the liquid slides all the way down his throat, he chokes out a cough. "...and strong."

"Isabela has a way with wine, whiskey and, well, just about anything alcoholic." Hawke nudges Isabela with his elbow, to which she feigns a blush and shoos the limb away from her. "If it were up to Aveline, we'd be mixing margaritas with _milk_ , Maker forbid. Isabela could combine alcohol and lysol and it would somehow still taste good." He should know - he'd tried it. Not terrible, and it had given those perverted bar patrons the worst hangover of their lives. It was worth it, in his book.

Somehow, Hawke's claim scares Fenris...as it likely should have. "What...is this, exactly?"

Without missing a beat, both Isabela and Hawke speak in unison - "don't ask". 

Fenris seems taken aback, but does not persist. Instead, he takes a tiny sip, deciding whether the risk is still worthwhile. 

"It's best not to ask questions with Isabela's booze. Sip and smile, my friend." Fenris seems to heed his advice.

"You know, if you enjoy it that much, then you ought to come out to the pub I bartend at." Isabela produces a coupon from Maker knows where (her bra, or other less savory places, if Garrett knew her half as well as he'd like to think he did) and passes it to Fenris. The ticket could have, and likely was, printed off of someone's home computer. The clipart of a beer mug with googly eyes didn't help. Still, valid voucher. "The Hanged Man. Tomorrow night. It's our annual First Day Hangover Hangout!" 

Hawke sends her the side eye. There was no such thing. 

She pretends not to notice. "I'll be there, as will our friends...and so will Garrett."

Fenris narrows his eyes, mulling over the matter. Hawke expects an immediate decline, but none comes. Instead, Fenris takes a sip of his drink. "I..." The answer, however, was interrupted as Donnic came to whisper something important in his ear. Fenris growled at whatever message he received, but composed himself. "...I will see you at seven, then."

Casting a glance at the door, he begins to shuffle away before realizing he's still holding the glass. "Thank you, for the drink and the invite, Isabela." He nods to her, only for his eyes to return to Hawke. "And to you, Hawke, for the company."

With that, Fenris spares a single glance at Aveline and Donnic, huddled around the landline in the kitchen, before slipping out of the front door and away from the party. Hawke watches every step he takes until the door shuts behind him. Now, it was time to turn his attention to Isabela. "Funny, I don't remember agreeing to drink myself to death tomorrow night."

Isabela exhales a short stream of breath, blowing him off. Literally. "And I don't remember you telling me anything about meeting some sexy stranger a year ago in a secret rendezvous." With a wave of her hand, she dismisses him entirely. "Now we're even."

Garrett attempts to follow her back to the bar, where most of the party's current occupants stand in desperate need of strong alcohol to make it through the rest of the night. "Well it was a lovely performance you had there. I'm certain he's quite smitten with you."

Isabela passes a glance over her shoulder, smirk all the more menacing only because he can see only half of her face. Her eyebrow arcs itself high above her iris. "Oh? If I'm not mistaken, I'd swear you were jealous." She giggles as he stews. "Now, now, calm down there, lovebird. I wasn't hitting on him - I was hitting on him for _you_. It's different!"

Hawke can scarcely see how, but he knows better than to ask Isabela. The insane don't exactly follow logical lines of thought. Quieting his voice to a harsh hiss, Hawke continues. "Perhaps the next time you try and hook up with a hot guy you might try one that isn't a recently-rescued sex slave."

"So you _do_ think he's hot!" Isabela muses on that information for a moment, humming gleefully to herself in a fantasy Hawke does not even want to know. "Sex slave, huh? Kinky. Do you think he knows how to handle chains?"

Hawke isn't sure whether to berate her complete lack of political correctness (or sense of compassion) or simply accept that withstanding her total lack of social graces was his lot in life. He goes with the latter. "I think he'd sooner put you in them for making that comment." A smirk slithers further across her face.

"Even better!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you SO much for reading the newest chapter!  
> Yes, Isabela is absolutely terrible (but undeniably lovable all at once), and YES, that singer on the television _was_ absolutely a reference to Mariah Carey and the murder of her career we witnessed on live television last night. I blame her for why I'm sick right at the start of 2017.
> 
> If anyone is curious, here are the outfits I envisioned for the characters!  
> Fenris (http://sta.sh/01sc97oqmq24)  
> Aveline (http://sta.sh/0jvdbge0ml7)  
> Isabela (http://sta.sh/01uah84lij2p)  
> Garrett (http://sta.sh/01ku21lsw6yt)


	3. Beneath the Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hanged Man holds surprising secrets in store for Fenris. Discovering the identities of his newfound friends leads to a life-altering decisions - does he fight or flee?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Snow Day, to everyone stuck inside during the storm as I am!  
> Snowstorms work wonders for writers. I got snuggled up with hot tea and a warm blanket and wrote out the remainder of this chapter to churn this out early for all of you.
> 
> For anyone who had viewed the previous chapters - I've actually been cleaning up...well, everything, really. Nothing major was added or removed, I simply spaced some things out format-wise (Good Lawd, it was almost intimidating to look at all that!) and edited the tense issues...and the tags, because I realized it probably looked like I was promoting sex slavery instead of rallying against it. Whoops! 
> 
> Fair warning: exposition abounds everywhere in this chapter. I promise, the normal romance, action and character development will continue next chapter, but I had to set literally everything up in this one to continue on as planned.

How had he ended up helping out, exactly? Ah, yes. Isabela. Surprise, surprise.

He wasn't getting an answer, was he?

That text exchange had occurred hours ago, and yet Hawke still could not conceive of how she always had her way. With everything, and, more commonly, everyone. Even him! Well, not quite. Not like _that_. Almost. One time. But it hadn't happened, and for that, he thanked Andraste.

Still, it wasn't as though he could say no. Well, he could, but he'd be hearing about it until the next new year and he hadn't the time nor the energy to spare for Isabela's revenge. A wonderful friend was she, when not attempting to set fire to your sheets or plunder your wine cellar. The latter occurred regardless of whether or not she remembered a grudge against you or not, but bitterness never helped.

As such, Hawke found himself shuffling through the streets of Lowtown in the frigid Wintermarch winds. He had hoped to dress comfortably tonight, no longer needing to look dashing. Isabela, however, had insisted he at least toss on a scarf or earmuffs or _something_ more substantial than a ratty tee and jeans. 

"You'll freeze to death, darling." Could it be? An inkling of compassion? "You can't expect to trace those tattoos with your tongue if your lips are shut tighter than a Chantry nun." Of course not. Too good to be true.

Nevertheless, Hawke had decided to brave the brutal temperatures on behalf of his beloved Bela. Unfortunately, he could scarcely see his destination from behind the layers of fabric. If it weren't for the poor parking job of the nearby Nissan Rogue, emblazoned with bumper stickers of the Jolly Roger alongside an assortment of scandalous stickers, he would have never realized he had already arrived.

Bartrand's Books and Booze would have seemed an oddity in a normal neighborhood, if not for Lowtown's exceedingly eclectic retail spaces: an apothecary whose owner outfitted herself as though she stepped straight out of an operetta, the surprisingly openly-labeled contraband bargain goods, and a gift shop supposedly containing imported goods the owner swore were not smuggled. These shops made up only the lesser evils of Lowtown. In comparison, this store sat comfortably unnoticed in its eccentricity.

Bartrand's Books combined the nostalgia of an old-fashioned bookstore with the comfort of one's personal living space. Bookshelves crammed the tiny interior, lining each wall with legends, lore and literature from authors both famous and fledgling. The mustiness came with its own charm. Hand-me-down armchairs squished themselves into compact corners, allowing visitors to read in peaceful silence. That is, of course, until the liquor was served on the other side of the establishment.

Bartrand's Booze, contrary to its sister store, prided itself on raucous crowds, questionably edible dining options and the cheapest selection of liquor this side of Kirkwall. Wooden stools that had seen better days lined the counter, while gum-ridden tables and beer-stained seats filled the rest of the room. It had its own charm, he supposed, if one found fist fights, beer bellies, and the aroma of a man's armpit arousing. Isabela certainly seemed to.

Now, of course, the store stood empty, except for the sole employee inside. Hoping not to die of hypothermia outside, Hawke raps demandingly against the glass of the entrance door.

Spotting him, Isabela rushes to the entrance. "Hold on, love," she commands as she rummaged around for her keys, muffled as her words were through the barrier, "a little fresh air won't kill you."

_No, but Bartrand might, if he finds a frozen corpse on his front porch_. The thought isn't meant in jest.

As soon as Isabela opens the door, Hawke hurries inside. Ever the drama queen, he immediately sets to soothing his frostbitten fingers above the nearest source of fire. Unfortunately, the only one in sight is a tea light Isabela had lit - "for ambience". He is certain she didn't even know what that meant.

And clearly, she didn't know anything about interior decorating, either. Satinalia lights clutter the countertops, whilst a candelabra containing nine candles clashed with the other ornaments. Red-and-green candles sit atop other candlesticks, blue and silver baubles hang from a half-dead tree, and someone has crossed out "Merry Satinalia" and scribbled "Happy Holidays" on a nearby banner. "You know, for political correctness, and all that."

Hawke folds his arms against his chest. "You? Caring about political correctness? Well, I'll be a mabari's uncle. I never thought I'd see the day."

"And you never will." Isabela shoves a handful of lights into his hands, gesturing vaguely at where they were supposed to be hung. "I couldn't care whether you sing hymns in a church or sacrifice chickens in your closet to celebrate. Bartrand, however, hates bad publicity. The alcohol only helps loosen people's lips."

"Point taken," although he could only wonder whether she'd met someone who actually slaughtered poultry for pleasure. Knowing Isabela, she had likely slept with them at one point or another. That might have even been their form of foreplay. "I just didn't think you'd care what other people thought."

"Not unless those people are lanky and covered in tattoos - and if their thoughts happen to be negative towards you."

She has him then, she _knows_ she does. The way her smirk slides so easily across her face does nothing to help. She's enjoying this, the cheeky tease. Then again, he could not deny her the truth.

Seeing she's won, she simply continues on. Why stop her conquest there when she had so much ground gained already? "I thought some candles and lights might help, you know, set the mood! Gods know you need it."

Hawke grimaces at that. He did not _need_ her help, thank you very much. He wanted her around as a wingman (wingwoman? Was that a thing? Then again, they _had_ just established that neither cared a whit about political correctness), but he could have accomplished this all on his own if he had wanted...and gotten lucky. In more ways than one. "Ah, yes. I almost forgot how romantic melting wax can be. Let's only hope this year some drunkard doesn't spill it all on my bare flesh again."

Isabela snorts. It's entirely unladylike, but so very her. "Perhaps Fenris is into that sort of thing?"

Maker's breath. Did she _ever_ stop thinking about sex? He didn't even need to ask. They both already knew that answer. 

Garrett could only rub at his temples. In an attempt to deflect the attention away from himself, he answers, "You seem much more interested in him than I do."

"Then why are you here, exactly?"

He...he didn't know. He hadn't planned on coming at all, actually. His original plans consisted of spending the night pouring over novels he hadn't caught up on or drafting thank you letters for those who sent him Satinalia gifts. Or, if he were realistic, slumping himself across the couch and watching Netflix until he passed out drooling on the remote. Whatever came first.

His silence says it all.

Throughout the next hour, Hawke helps Isabela set up the pub, albeit begrudgingly. This, of course, consisted of Hawke standing on shaky ladders and illegally wiring lights together as Isabela sat with whiskey in hand and directed him to the places she wanted him to go.

He still cannot answer her.

All too soon, patrons start pouring into the pub from every entrance. Whereas the only sounds prior to their arrival were Hawke's heavy breathing and Isabela's pointed remarks about his muscles (and, of course, the occasional teasing about how she hopes Fenris appreciates a working man as much as she does), the bar now blossomed with the sounds of burly men and burping. Truly charming.

An hour into the night, and still, Fenris has not shown his face. "Cheer up, love," Isabela coos, coddling the drink Hawke has already halfway chugged, "I'm sure he'll come! He's probably leaving now, or lost...or lathering himself up for tonight." Somehow, the teasing doesn't help. The mental image of an oily Fenris, however, works wonders.

It isn't for another half an hour that the sound of the door opening reveals striking tattoos and a sour disposition, the sound of the doorbell barely audible above the audience's screaming. _Fenris_ , Hawke realizes, and stands to his feet.

Fenris scours the crowd, hands wringing together, until he finds Hawke seated at the bar. Relief washes over him, face instantly settling into a tenseless ease. Before he even approaches, the apologies abound. "I'm sorry I'm so late. I hadn't realized 'Bartrand's' and 'The Hanged Man' were one and the same." Bashfully, he looks to the floorboards. "I'd been circling around for quite some time."

Isabela simply shrugs. "It's a nickname."

"One that does not exist online - or on any signs." Fenris doesn't seem to appreciate the miscommunication. Still, he retrieves the coupon from the night before, shoving it into Isabela's hands. 

She kisses it, causing Fenris to cringe, before winking and busying herself with the drink preparations. "Enjoy your alone time, you two."

Ignoring her comment, Hawke turns his attention to his still-standing companion. "I hadn't thought you'd actually come tonight." He pats the seat next to him in invitation. "Sit - I saved this especially for you."

Fenris' eyes widen for a second before obeying his request. "Thank you." Fenris settles himself into the seat, clearly noticing how uncomfortable it felt beneath his bottom. Hawke had taken the stool with a broken leg, but the others weren't much better. "Truth be told, I wasn't sure whether I would or not, either. I am...not much for crowds, I'm afraid."

"That's only because you haven't loosened those lips of yours with some liquor." Isabela calls from across the countertop, expertly sliding Fenris' drink down to him. Surprisingly, tattooed fingertips reach out to catch it instinctively. Both of his onlookers seem noticeably impressed. "Alcohol _always_ helps."

"It helps _you_ ," Hawke shoots back in turn, "not everyone. Especially not those you accost."

Isabela scoffs, feigning offense. She waves a hand at him dismissively, diverting her attention to the handsome (and occasionally horrific) customers catcalling as they ask for more alcohol. She serves the attractive ones first.

"Isabela's a wonder, isn't she?" Hawke swivels in his seat, propping one knee overtop of the other so as to more easily speak to Fenris. And perhaps to better enjoy the eye candy. 

Fenris, too, has dressed down tonight. Black skinny jeans compliment his hunter green hoodie that hides a seemingly see-through undershirt. Hawke wonders whether that was intentional or not. _Not too bad, tattoos. Not too bad at all._

"Tattoos" can't suppress a scoff. "Is that what they call it?" Fenris takes a sip of his drink, letting it slide smoothly down his throat instead of sloshing it around in his mouth first. Much different from the rest of the barbarians inside. "Still, I suppose she _does_ know how to make a decent drink."

"A woman of many talents, to be sure." Hawke spares a glance at his own glass. Isabela clearly had refilled it, probably at some point amidst his moping about before Fenris arrived. What she filled it with, however, Hawke can only guess. Throwing caution to the wind, he takes a swig. Fruity, yet with a sour kick to it. Whether that's citrus or the spirits, he'll never know. "Don't tell me you came only for the drinks."

Fenris spares a half-hearted laugh at that. The bleached locks poking past his black beanie shake in time with his head. "I am not so shallow." Hesitantly, he casts a glance around the room before lowering his voice to a whisper. "And I don't think this is the type of company I'd like to keep. It's much more...lively than Aveline's."

"Then why _did_ you come?"

The words escape Hawke's lips before he can retract them, or think of what he asks. Curse you, Isabela. Clearly, she'd drowned his drink in excess alcohol. She knew what a blabbermouth he could be when inebriated. Either that or Andraste had decided to torture him.

Fenris grits his teeth, swirling the liquor round and round his glass. His shoulders tense, huddling closer into the shell of himself as he thought. All the while, he refuses to make eye contact with Hawke. Seems neither of them knew the answer. "I suppose I owed _you_ a favor, too."

Hawke raises a sole eyebrow, to which Fenris clarifies, "for your story... _my_ story."

To think that a single (and likely illegal) action had somehow convinced Fenris to come out tonight. Hawke wasn't sure whether that was providence or consequence, but he couldn't complain. "Fenris, you don't owe me anything."

Fenris says nothing, only watches with an intentness Hawke hasn't seen before.

"You are not indebted to me, Fenris." Hawke leans against the countertop, staring directly into irises that won't leave his own. His brows lower themselves as they stare. He needed the other to understand how serious he was. "I don't want you keeping me company because you feel you owe me for writing the truth. I would like to keep your company, but only if the truth is that you desire to spend time with me."

Fenris stares on in silence for but a moment before breaking his gaze away. He takes what Hawke assumes is much too sizable a swig before releasing a sigh. "I...thank you, Hawke. You have released a heavy burden from me, with nothing expected in exchange." His eyes tense, struggling to articulate his thoughts. "Perhaps that is why I _do_ desire your company."

"Well, that's a relief." Hawke jokes, incapable of keeping the moment too sentimental. Andraste, that got tense. Fenris always seemed so serious. Then again, he supposed he had reason to be. Perhaps he needed someone like Hawke to let a little sunshine into all that doom and gloom. "It would have been awkward had you decided not to stay."

Fenris' laugh leaves him speechless, that same sense of suffering still lingering beneath the surface. Somehow, it seems smothered this time, muffled by merriment. Shaking his head, he takes another sip. And then, he smiles. So does Hawke. 

"You're a good man, Garrett."

Hawke takes a chance, leans a little closer in. Balancing his chin atop of his fist, he gives the other an impish grin. "What, just good? Not heroic or handsome?"

Fenris observes him then, the entirety of his body language, and Hawke _swears_ a blush creeps out beneath those cheekbones. Slowly, he opens his mouth to say somethi--

"Ooooh, what do we have here?"

\--ng that Hawke will never hear, because Isabela decides to choose that moment to interrupt them. Cockblock. "You boys sure seem to be getting along well." Amber eyes scour the room. "...more than the rest of these children, anyways."

In that moment, Fenris pulls away, straightening his position. Still, the smile lingers on his face, even whilst confronted with Isabela's advances. "Hawke is...easy."

Isabela's eyes slip away from the rest of the room to bore into Hawke's, screaming out her surprised pleasure in silent signals, as if Fenris isn't sitting _directly beside the both of them_. Honestly, subtlety seemed a foreign art to her. "Is he now?" Her grin grows devilish then. "That's not what I hear."

Fenris, realizing his blunder, visibly sputters in an attempt to recover. Hawke can't help but think it's sickeningly cute. No doubt Isabela thinks the same. "That is _not_ what I meant," he growls. Isabela purrs. 

Fenris shifts half of his face to address Hawke instead of Isabela, lips slipping into a frown. "I did not mean to demean your character, Hawke."

"Oh, stop being so serious, broody!" Isabela clicks her tongue. Fenris does not seem at all pleased by his pet name. "Hawke knows you meant him no harm. I only thought it was sweet to see you two bonding, is all! I bet our friends would think the same."

Fenris leans back in his chair as he finishes off his drink. "These friends...I believe you mentioned them last night, too." With a quiver of fear, his eyes flicker to the rabble roaming about the bar. " _These_ aren't your friends...are they?"

One fake "ha!" springs from Isabela's mouth. "Hardly. Drunkards don't make good company, I'm afraid."

"And yet I've kept yours for, what, three years now?" Hawke smirks as Isabela's eyes narrow at him. Fenris, however, seems all too amused. Checkmate. 

"Remind me to spit in your drink next time." Hawke pushes his lower lip out, but Isabela has seemingly moved on from the discussion at hand. Instead, she leans directly in front of Fenris with the wickedest smile Hawke has ever seen. Not a good sign, not at all. "Our real friends are downstairs...that is, if you'd like to meet them."

Fenris seems to shrink then. Fingertips tap against the side of his glass in time with his heartbeat. Hawke knows he seeks an excuse, so he provides an escape route. "There's no pressure to accept if you wouldn't like to. You must be tired - I know how exhausting Isabela can be." Ignoring Isabela's scowl, he continues, hushed and serious. "You do not owe us this, either, Fenris."

Silence. Then, a nod of acknowledgement. Or perhaps of gratitude? Hawke prepares himself for Fenris' imminent departure, bracing his heart for the impact. Even he does not want to admit why this would disappoint him so.

"...I'd like to meet them."

Startled, Hawke has to catch himself before the drink he felt like downing only moments ago nearly slips from his grasp. So much for playing it cool.

Isabela, however, retains her composure. "Well then, Fenris, follow me." She excuses herself from behind the bar, propping up a hastily-scrawled sign that reads: _On break - enjoy the tap water while you wait, boys_ , before leading them both beyond a door further into the building.

Just between the bookstore and the bar, Fenris finds, exists a tiny corridor with three exits - one to each establishment, and one, unlabeled, leading to who knows where. It is at this mysterious entrance that Isabela halts their progress. Grinning from ear to ear, she turns to the two of them. "Well, here we are, boys!" Fenris seems unimpressed, that is, until Isabela starts beating down the door.

"Carver! Open up, pup! It's your best frieeeeeend!"

No response.

"...it's Isabela, you little prude!"

Stiiiiill nothing.

With a huff, Isabela mutters something about a "blooming rose" and how he won't be getting into it anytime soon before jiggling the doorknob herself. Shockingly, it swings open. "Oh." Isabela acknowledges Hawke with an equal measure of surprise at it's opening and a lack of surprise that no one stands on the other side. "Have I told you how _wonderful_ your brother is at being our guardsman?"

Isabela beckons them on down, but Fenris refuses to take another step. Hawke inches closer, only to see the tips of his fingers shaking. He's...scared? "Look, I know Isabela can be intimidating, but I promise she doesn't bite...unless you like that sort of thing. Or are you scared of the dark?" Still no response. "...Fenris?"

Finally, Fenris shakes himself from his stupor. For a moment, he regards Hawke as though he had not recognized him. Emerald eyes shiver beneath Hawke's gaze as the glaze overlaying them disappears. "My apologies. I...lost myself in thought for a moment."

Hawke decides it's best not to ask. That doesn't stop his mind from wandering, wondering.

With Hawke in the lead, the two descend down a set of steep stairs into the unknown. Hawke can feel the heat of Fenris' breath against his neck. Someone sure thought to stick close to him.

Eventually, the darkness dissipates to reveal a dimly-illuminated corridor. Inside stood stalls that line the hall from left to right, with people of all ethnicities, cultures and creeds circled around the various areas. Each space possessed its own distinctive insignia, something that set it apart from the others. Yet, they all seemed to act as a cohesive unit. It did not resemble the cutthroat marketplaces where merchants undercut one another to make a profit or stole customers with promises of cheap deals. This acted as a community, not a competition.

"What...where have you taken me, Hawke?" Fenris asks with wonderment, despite the strangled suspicion still lingering.

"This, Tats, is what we call 'The Deep Roads'." A voice calls out from beside them, causing both to pivot...and glance downwards. The owner of the voice, it seems, stands a maximum of five feet tall, if that. Chest hair curls out from underneath an expensive-looking silk shirt that seemed all too extravagant for one of his stature. He strides towards the two of them with complete confidence, smirk set into place on a scruffy face. _Ever the showman, Varric._

Fenris shoots Hawke a wary look. "...Tats?"

"Your tattoos." Hawke points a finger at them, which Fenris only grimaces at. Raising his hands defensively, he adds, "he names everyone something obscene - it's nothing personal."

"Consider it a housewarming gift." The nickname's distributor chuckles, even more so when Fenris' confusion increases at the remark. "The name's Varric Tethras, kid. This here's the Deep Roads, a refuge for those resisting the oppression of this city." 

Varric's arm sweeps across the room, introducing him to the sights, the sounds, the smells of the underground. "The books and booze are all a cover for something I'm sure you'll find _much_ more interesting. Down here, we help the less fortunate souls of the city come back to life, bit by bit. Each person you see has a special skill they use to put the pieces of each person back together again." He stops to stifle a laugh. "They're all a little eccentric, but hey, that's Kirkwall! Welcome."

Fenris furrows his brow. "If you really are helping people, then why all the secrecy? Why not do this openly on the streets?"

"You mean like how the police helped you, Tattoos?" Fenris freezes at Varric's response. Not an ounce of judgment shines through his tone, but that doesn't mean his words still don't possess the power to pierce anyone's heart. Varric knows too much not to outsmart anyone he encounters. "You got lucky that Aveline found you. If you had gotten stuck with Jeven, hell, I don't know if he wouldn't have shipped you back to your slaveholder himself. You better thank Andraste or Mythal or whoever the hell you worship that Hawke was the one to save you. Not everyone is as nice as they seem."

Fenris takes the time to consider that. For a moment, Hawke swears he will lash out at Varric. After a moment, the rage flickering in his irises subsides, instead replaced by resigned defeat. Jaded eyes flicker over towards him. Chapped lips open to mouth 'thank you'.

"Shall we get on with the grand tour? Or have you had enough secrets for one night?"

Without a word, Fenris nods, stepping into place behind Varric. Hawke stands at his side, ushering him onward. Inside, he heaves a silent sigh of relief. Turning and running hadn't seemed an impossibility for Fenris but a second ago. At least now he would know who they were, even if it took Varric coaxing him.

"Like half of Thedas, you've acquainted yourself with the spirit of this operation." At this, Isabela, steps in front of their entourage to take a low bow. No one can decide whether or not she chose that angle to stop at for the perfect view of her cleavage it provided. Either way, Hawke supplies a shout of fanfare - for her role, not her breasts. "Stealing hearts, secrets, and, on the rare occasion, wallets from the lecherous and inebriated since she washed ashore here."

Isabela sidles up besides Fenris. Too close for comfort? Clearly, she didn't understand the concept. "You'd be amazed what people admit when bribed with a bottle of brandy and a couple of empty promises." 

Her company keeps quiet.

"...well, _mostly_ empty promises."

Crickets chirp softly in the distance.

"Fine, fine. Let me rephrase - 'a bottle of brandy and promises that may or may not be kept depending on whether the person's criminal record makes them roguishly alluring or potentially psychotic.' Happy?"

Varric hums softly in approval. Fenris isn't certain whether that's sound enough logic, but decides against protesting. Quick learner.

"As I thought. Now you all can continue on with the tour - I have a whole room of drunk, needy dicks to take care of." Dare they ask for clarification? No, no need. The answer surely wouldn't drive the mental images away, anyhow. "Don't have too much fun without me, boys. I'd hate to be left out."

In a fit of playful flirtation, Isabela nudges Fenris' side as she departs. The contact causes Fenris to flinch instinctively, nearly knocking him off balance. Hawke does not complain when freezing flesh brushes against his arm. Hell, he even leans into it. Just a little. Enough for Fenris not to notice, but for Bela to fantasize about throughout the rest of her shift. Unlike someone, he didn't mind a little unexpected physical contact. Well, okay, he might complain when the skin is as cold as Fenris' ( _blessed Andraste, did he have ice in his veins!?_ ), but he could bear with it for Fenris' sake.

"Always hard at work, that one," Varric muses, innuendo infecting even _his_ speech. Maker, maybe everyone ought to spend some time away from Isabela. She was rubbing off on them in all the wrong ways.

"Sex offenders aside, the first stop most people make down here is to our resident educator, Bethany." Varric gestures to the right to an open sector of space resembling a makeshift classroom. Secondhand textbooks sit stacked atop desktops scrawled with written notes of _DP + IB 4EVER_ and drawings of stick figures. The chairs, however, have been pushed aside, now occupied by children and teenagers crowding around a woman who couldn't be past the age of twenty-four.

Bethany, beige dress a mess with the handprints of persistent children and pitch black locks tumbling about her shoulders with one too many fly-aways to hide her stress, still wears a smile despite the struggle. She hovers overtop of one of her students like a mother hen checking on her chick. The young girl she doted on could not have exceeded the age of fifteen, struggling to sound out syllables in the most basic of books. For a second, Bethany's eyes flitter towards them. The pride she emitted towards the child finds itself replaced by love of a different kind, and she winks at Hawke. Hawke responds in kind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hawke thinks he spots the line of Fenris' lips tighten ever so slightly.

"Bethany takes all that nonsense she spent thousands to learn at university and tries teaching it to the kids. You can't exactly enjoy the rest of the Deep Roads if you can't read a word we write around here, let alone get a job in the real world. Lack of degree aside, the kid's pretty darn talented. A prodigy in the making. The kids certainly take to her, at least, and if the way they all start screaming out whatever word they can read this week is any indication, that school of her's must be teaching her something."

Varric hesitates in his speech, casting his eyes about the room narrowly. "Then again, there wouldn't be any of the little banshees screeching about here if Carver did his damn job. Now where did the other Hawke run off to -- ah, there he is!" Somehow, the discovery that their resident guardsman stood not at his post but beside a pretty girl pleased Varric. Story material, no doubt. "Looks like Junior lovebird let himself take a break. "

He snickers as he moves to approach his employee, muttering under his breath just loud enough for everyone to enjoy. "Then again, maybe the 'junior's' unnecessary. After all, Senior sure isn't getting any love lately."

Hawke can feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck and into his cheeks. While he would _love_ to argue against that painfully antagonistic but pathetically truthful statement, well, he has nothing. Because he has _had_ nothing for...what, months now? Maker, he really ought to find someone - and fast.

Fenris, at the least, seems to absorb the information with interest. And a chuckle. _Traitor_.

Carver stands with one arm propped against a tent post whilst the other remains occupied with a rather frantic woman whose eyebrows seem to be amidst as a seizure examining his hand. Her fingertips roam each crease and crack of his palm, muttering random syllables about "looks like that one will bring good luck!" and then, only a moment later, "oh, no wait, perhaps it's an omen of imminent doom...I can never remember these things".

Lack of skill aside, Carver certainly seems to appreciate the attention.

Whereas Bethany's classroom certainly possessed a sense of, well, class (pun intended), this space seemed more of a mishmosh of mysterious symbols and prints patterned with dizzying designs. A cylindrical tent stood in the center, its flaps now open, but usually sealed by nothing other than the fabric itself. Inside, a rickety table contained a stack of tarot cards, a crystal orb and a number of other mystical instruments that Hawke couldn't begin to name or understand.

It is there that Varric accosts his employee with a menacing stare. Thankfully (for his sake), Carver's eyes remain focused on the fortune tell her.

"Our hopeless romantic over here? That's Carver, Hawke's kid sibling. He might not be a child legally anymore, but trust me, he's a boy in a man's body." 

Before Varric can continue, Carver leans closer to the fortune teller in an attempt to look seductive. The woman, however, chooses that moment to shoot straight up, knocking both of their heads together. Carver's screech stretches about two octaves higher than the female's. "...see what I mean?"

Varric relents on berating Carver, instead opting to return to the tour. "You know, when he's actually accomplishing the tasks I pay him minimum wage to finish, he's not half bad. A little too big for his britches, maybe, but he'll grow into 'em. He keeps the less-pleasurable company - you know, nosy politicians, reporters with one too many inquiries, and the occasional wanted criminal - in their place. Namely, far away from here - and from _her_ \- as physically possible."

At that, Varric points to the still sore saleswoman standing behind her booth. "'Her' meaning Merrill, our...spiritual consultant, if you will. See, some of our friends seek guidance from 'the other side'. Merrill here, well, she hears what the spirits say and communicates it to whoever asks. Tarot cards, crystal balls, tea leaves - take your pick. That girl has her hand in one too many pies. Unfortunately for Junior, she still hasn't tasted his."

Hawke groans weakly. "Can we _please_ stop talking about my brother's sad excuse for a sex life? Or rather, the lack of it. I swear, you're all hanging around with Isabela too much."

In response, Varric simply shrugs. Hawke assumes that means _no, we won't stop, but you might be right about Isabela_. Figures.

Across from Merrill's fortune telling tent stands a sterile, office-type structure that stands out amidst the musty grime of the Deep Roads. Too little dust stains its surfaces to fit in. The only decorations seem to indicate an association with Andraste, if the shining sun served as any indication. 

As picturesque as the space itself stands, so too does its owner. A striking set of cheekbones cast the only shadows over his otherwise-illuminated face. Cerulean eyes shine as his lips speak of the Maker's deeds. Unfortunately, no one listens.

"And as usual, sounds like Choir Boy's preaching to the masses." The way in which Varric grits his teeth leaves Fenris suspicious of his religious ideologies. Then again, Varric didn't exactly strike one as the type to sit in pews and pray every Sunday. "Merrill might provide more mystical services, but Sebastian offers our customers the usual therapy you see people talk about on the informercials, along with what passes for religious guidance. As far as I'm concerned, they're both hearing voices." The ghost of grief flitters about Varric's features for but a second.

And then, as swiftly as it appears, it dissipates.

"If you ask me, Blondie - yes, the scruffy hipster with the lensless glasses he swears are prescription - heals a lot more than those two combined." At this, Varric points to the collection of tables, benches and boxes serving as a stable treatment center. The man described in perfect detail stands overtop of one of his patients, stitching up an open sore. His brows knit themselves together in fierce concentration, but Hawke knows he heard the comment, for the ends of his lips tug into a frown. "Blondie, or, if you wanna be technical about it, 'Dr. Anders' acts as our 'holistic doctor'."

Hawke can only chuckle at Fenris' furrowed brow. "Never heard of it? It's alright - neither has anyone else."

"According to Danders, he treats people physically, yes, but then he's also into all that meditation shit. You know, healthy living, fitness training, Wii Fit on the weekends you aren't getting blindingly drunk and whatnot." Rubbing his chin in impish consideration, Varric tags on, "now if he did _hot_ yoga, he might actually get a few more clients considering his absurd dietary restrictions."

For a moment, Hawke has a stunningly vivid image of Anders attempting to teach a class on sun salutations and standing knees to kids from the slums. It isn't going well. That is, until Fenris' form slips into his mind, clad in yoga pants that trace the curves of his impressively-plump ass and a sweat-soaked shirt that outlines the trace of every muscle on that slender chest. The thought alone leaves Hawke a little too breathless (and a bit too aroused) for their current circumstances.

Fenris notices the shudder that racks Hawke's spine, but merely raises an eyebrow, saying nothing. _Thank the Maker. How would I have explained that? Don't mind me, just imagining the sweat glistening off of your chiseled abdomen as you bend over to do the downward dog. And hopefully me._

"If you gentlemen would be so kind as to stop fantasizing about our dear doctor and proceed onwards, we've arrived at our final destination." Varric's voice brings them both out of their mental reveries, and prods them in the direction of the corridor's end.

The narrow hallway now opens into a much more spacious area. The lights lay low here, dim and oddly romantic for such a cramped space. Flickering candle lights illuminate the tables strewn about, people seated on wobbling bar stools and mismatched chairs whilst sipping on liquor and laughing as if they had not a care in the world. Were these the same people who suffered above the surface? Surely not, they couldn't be...could they?

"Welcome to the Grotto, Tats - the Deep Roads' personal lounge and relaxation area. That pub upstairs? It's nothing compared tot this. Prettier, maybe, but the booze here isn't cheap like that discount champagne Isabela serves."

Varric leads them over to an empty table, choosing the seat nearest the ground to hop atop. Fenris finds himself eyeing the stool with the exposed nail and the chair next to it with the strange stain, unable to decide which would be worse to sit in. Hawke rolls his eyes, claiming the nail-studded stool. He paid special attention to where he planted his rear, however. He needed that.

"See the bartender over there?" Varric points to a counter nestled into the corner. Sun-kissed skin beneath a bed of bleach blonde locks leans lazily over the countertop, shmoozing with the man and woman a little too tipsy to keep themselves from denying his advances. "That'd be Zevran. He and Isabela switch shifts between who handles the Hanged Man and who gets a night off in the Grotto. As usual, Zevran got lucky tonight." 

Both the man and woman beginning giggling incessantly. The rosy hue of their cheeks cannot only come from alcohol. "...and it looks like he's gonna be getting lucky later tonight, too."

"So what do _you_ do, then?" Fenris asks suddenly, tone a little too sharp. Still, anyone with the secrecy of information as Fenris and the smoothness of narrative as Varric would certainly alert those prone to suspicion. Fenris, Hawke found, had concerns surrounding everyone. Everyone but Hawke himself, or so he hoped.

Varric grins, straightening his spine - probably to appear taller, not that it succeeds. Firmly, he plants folded fingers on the tabletop and does not shy away from Fenris' demands. Twin pairs of emerald eyes meet, one set narrowed in skepticism, the others wide with narcissism. 

"Why, I'm the Bookkeeper."

Silence settles between them. Varric had expected fanfare.

"...that does not answer my question."

"You're no fun, ya know that, Tattoos?"

"Were you expecting a title to impress me or mystify me?"

"You know what, forget Tattoos. You're downright Broody." Varric leans back then, kicking his feet onto the top while his arms retract towards his chest. So, someone _can_ combat Varric's wit. Hawke never thought he would live to see the day.

"I am not _broody_ ," Fenris spits back, clearly perturbed if the curling of his fists served as any indication. Then again, to Varric, Fenris appeared as but a child about to throw a temper tantrum. A laughable and lovable, albeit nonthreatening, baby. How adorable.

"Fine, have it your way, Tattoos." Varric shrugs, but Fenris seems unabated. "If you're so insistent on knowing, I handle all the inner workings of this well-oiled machine you see here. Bartrand might be the brawn of the operation, supplying us with the funds and all from his mercantile expeditions, but me? I'm the brains...and the looks, but Hawke believes that's up for debate."

Fenris scoffs, but Hawke cannot convince himself it's because he believes Hawke would win that debate.

"Besides bookkeeping, I take the stories of all the folks you find in here and incorporate them into my own tales." Slipping his hand into the inner pocket of his silken shirt, he retrieves a leather-bound notebook. Despite the obvious usage, the exterior remains free of rips or tears of any sort. "What? I have to find inspiration for novels somewhere, you know. Heck, I even edit our champion's articles from time to time."

Fenris turns towards Hawke, eyes softer than they were towards their temporary tour guide. One eyebrow arcs itself high above its resting place. Questioning.

Before Hawke can supply a sarcastic remark that creates more questions than it answers, Varric interjects. "I might sneak a subtle message into my stories, but Hawke here? He takes the tales to the masses. That article he featured you in, Tattoos, took Kirkwall by storm. 'Hawke' has now become a household name for news about the city's seedy underbelly. Unlike the reporters, however, he tells the truth of the people living around here. We're not nobodies, thanks to him." 

"And...'Champion'?"

"Champion, People's President, Savior of the Slums - call him whatever you like. Folks round here certainly do. Nicknames abound in a place like this. Besides, Hawkeye here deserves it - he finds every victim he can, brings 'em on down the Deep Roads to have us help them out. We might do the dirty work, but if it weren't for Hawke here, we wouldn't even have a place to practice." Varric eyes sparkle as he speaks, both with the earnest interest in storytelling that always rises up within him and the accompanying gratitude that underlies his distant nature.

Hawke cannot help but crack a smile at that. Come on, how can one not when complimented so sincerely? "And here I thought _I_ was the flatterer." Directing his attention to Fenris, he gestures theatrically towards Varric. "Now you know where I get it from."

Fenris remains unconvinced.

"Not seeing the family resemblance, Broody?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'master' and 'apprentice', but thank you for making it awkward as always, Varric."

"My pleasure, 'apprentice'." Varric can't help but chuckle at that. Still, he shakes his head, no doubt an innuendo or two - courtesy of Isabela's influence - has snuck into the more fantastical corners of his mind. Hawke doesn't want to know, and doesn't want to find whether that has made its way into Varric's next romance novel or not. "But back to business."

Varric returns to his previous position, but with a certain smirk now taking the place of his formerly business-like persona. "We could always use another freedom fighter around here. What about it, Tattoos?"

White hair whips about as Fenris' head lurches backwards. Hawke hopes that reaction came from revelation and not revulsion. " _Me_!?"

"You see anyone else around here with tattoos wild enough to merit a nickname?"

"No, I..." Fenris' head drops down, hiding his eyes behind his hair. Apparently, the etchings in the tabletop have him much more interested than their current conversation. Or perhaps he had a shy side beneath all of that bark and bile. "...why?"

Garrett cannot discern whether Fenris cannot stomach the thought of recruitment or whether he cannot comprehend why they would want him along for the ride. He chooses to believe the latter, though fearing the former.

Somewhere within him, Varric summons a sense of compassion. Eyes turn tender towards the other's whispered scrutiny. Even his words lack their typical punch. "See all these kids down here? They've got stories, sure, but none of 'em have any fighting spirit. No one wants change. You, I can see it. Hell, I've _read_ it. You won't stop until the injustice ends. We need a fighter like you, Fenris."

Varric's eyes shift towards Hawke. "Funny, reminds me of someone else I know."

Hawke wonders whether that sudden heat comes from the compliment, the intensity of Fenris' sudden stare, or the fact that _Andraste be damned_ , the Deep Roads could use some air conditioning.

"Whaddaya say, Tats? Wanna change Kirkwall?"

Hawke cannot conceive that his response could possibly be positive. Fenris, forming an alliance with an underground movement of modern-day Robin Hoods? Unlikely. Impossible, even. He ought to stop hoping he will say--

"...I'm in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for taking the time to read this chapter!  
> I hope you all were able to do so whilst snuggled up inside a Snuggie, away from the snow and storms. If there's no snow near you, well, just dump some salt and dandruff on the lawn. It'll look fine...except to your neighbors.
> 
> Huge shoutout to everyone who has left comments and kudos on this work so far! Tenaciouscorpse and kmlh17922 - you made this so worthwhile! Every time I see an ounce of feedback, it truly makes my day. Feel free to leave questions, comments, and thoughts of any kind down below - I'd love to talk to you all!


	4. Tattoos for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett gets inked after spoiling his sister, the princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enough with exposition! On to adorable sibling bonding, complete misunderstandings, and flirting via tattoos. Cameos abound - let's see who can spot them all.

Within the week to come, Fenris received his official introduction to their ragtag group of renegades. That "introduction", of course, consisted solely of everyone getting blindingly drunk. Well, mostly everyone. Isabela and Zevran nearly slept together (in both senses of the phrase) on top of one of the tables, Varric's stories somehow got even crazier with a couple pints in him, and everyone discovered that Merrill should never be given so much as a single shot ever again, lest the world end. According to her prophecies, anyways. 

Fenris, however, refused to touch more than a single glass of red wine. Hawke wondered why, wondered whether he himself should have had that second or third shot of tequila. Fenris assured him he appreciated the sentiment, but reliving the prohibition was unnecessary. His reasoning, however, remained unexplained. 

The next day, after everyone's hangover had worn off to the point that they could glance at their texts without throwing up in the nearest toilet, they all agreed to have their first official meeting of the New Year the following Friday night at the Grotto. 

Hawke's work week felt like it lasted a lifetime. Since leads on the Tevinter sex slave scandal had slimmed down considerably as of late, Hawke had taken to reporting on the rumors that overtook Kirkwall: the rise of a religious cult known as the Qun, the hushed whispers of an alliance between Kirkwall's Viscount and the Magisters of Tevinter, the surfacing of some crime-fighting acquaintances of a woman named Jennifer (he still had yet to understand that one). All well and nice, of course, but nothing quite as thrilling as his first story. 

Then again, his temporary partner did little to help matters. With Varric bogged down writing the next installment of _Hard in Hightown_ , Hawke had to turn elsewhere for editing. Unfortunately, all of Kirkwall remained clueless as to his identity. 

As such, scouring the rest of Thedas resulted in the discovery of miss Josephine Montilyet, a well-known writer who, in the midst of a dry spell of work between employment, had offered her services to Hawke. The woman was nothing short of a shark. Sharp in every sense of the word, she knew how best to sway the hearts of readers, hide the true intentions of politically-incorrect statements and still provide a product that roused the spirits of its readers. All of this performed with a soft smile and a whole lot of red ink. Intimidating, utterly intimidating. 

Still, she seemed sweet beneath the hundreds of revisions on a single article and her constant correction of Garrett's grammar. All part of the job, he supposed. Still, it drained him, significantly so. He needed a break.

Hearing his exhaustion through the phone on their weekly catch-up call (a habit Bethany insisted on keeping upon Garrett's retreat from their family home), Bethany offered herself as a solution. Friday, before their weekly meeting at the Grotto, she would treat him to a day out on the town. "Wherever you'd like," she promised. He assumed she meant to add, "and then we'll stop at the Hightown shops for me". 

As per standard family procedure, Garrett arrives at her house about half an hour late. It would not have posed a problem, had Bethany not actually managed to tame her hair on time today. Usually, the extra half an hour would not have been nearly enough. 

As Bethany emerges from their abode in a midnight blue cardigan thrown overtop of a lacy white sundress, Garrett can still make out Gamlen's shouting through the thin walls. Lowtown had never been known for its safety or sound-proof construction. The thin line of Bethany's lips silently assures Garrett that the topic of conversation could not have been positive. 

With a sigh, but without words, she embraces her brother. A little too tight, but nothing out of the ordinary for Bethany. Still, something about the way her torso slumps against his chest seems all too disheartened for a girl who seemed to radiate sunshine. No words were necessary. 

They stay they for a second before stealing off into the car and away to the restaurant. Garrett turns down the road, a little too eager to see Bethany's reaction. 

With a gasp, she almost shrieks, "The Spoiled Princess!" before begging him to hit the brakes. Before he can interject, Bethany bolts from the passenger seat, with a kiss to his cheek and a promise that she will save a seat for him at the nearest table. Seems the restaurant wasn't the only thing spoiled around here. In fact, Hawke recalled making that joke to Bethany once upon a time. She hadn't taken it all too well, unless one counted a minor temper tantrum resulting in the soaking of Hawke's shirt and a slug to his shoulder "well".

Truth be told, the restaurant possessed no sense of wonderment. It stood as nothing more than a quaint cafe lodged between a creek and a yacht club that no one in Lowtown could afford. Hawke always assumed the owner stole the yachts from Hightown. No one had proved his assumptions wrong yet. Still, Bethany fell in love with it as soon as she stepped inside for the first time. 

The owner, a widow by the name of Larana, told the tale of how her husband had inherited the restaurant from his parents. His father had doted on his daughter, spoiling his little princess rotten, only for her to run off. Unfortunately for her, death ran after her - and caught up all too quickly. The compassion inside Bethany compelled her to take pity on this poor woman.

In fact, for a solid year, she insisted that they come here every weekend for family gatherings. As the Amell's little princess, she, of course, got her way. Ah right, _that_ was when he'd made that joke. He could still smell the smoothie on his shirt.

Bethany takes a seat nearest the furthest windows, so she can have the view of the riverside. It's a rather unremarkable river, truth be told, but she adores it all the same. His sister always had felt such a connection to the elements. The world around her drew her closer to the Maker, of so she claimed.

When Garrett takes a seat across from her, she has already decided on her meal. Well, likelihood had it that she knew what to order before she even walked in. Creature of habit. 

Larana, it appeared, had preemptively poured Garrett a cup of coffee. Maker bless that beautiful woman. Garrett all too eagerly consumed almost the whole cup in one swig. Bethany's frown revealed her apparent disapproval, but she said nothing until they had placed their orders - blueberry pancakes for Bethany, with extra whipped cream, and an order of eggs antoinette for Garrett...with bacon. And sausage links. Bethany disapproves of those, too.

She only lasts a nanosecond before launching into conversation. "So, who is this _Fenris_ , hm? And why have you been holding out on me, brother dearest?" Her eyebrows raise into an intimidating arch. Her smirk, however, holds only mischief, malice somehow missing. It still intimidates him.

"Hello, dearest sister. It's so lovely to see you too! I'm so happy to hear all about your life. You know how impolite it would be ask pointed questions about mine before I even finish my coffee." If the Hawkes were known for anything, it would undoubtedly be between their sharp wit, strange company, and the inexplicable ability to find themselves amidst insane circumstances. The sharp wit was something he and his sister had distinctly in common.

Bethany releases a sigh, relenting in her assault. For now. There's only a matter of time before she resumes her interrogation. 

For now, she prattles on about her school schedule, crammed with classes she couldn't care less about. Double majoring in both Education and Language Arts rarely leaves time for luxuries like socializing or fine dining or breathing. Hawke can still see the wear her work has on her, the dark rings lingering under her eyelids. Surely, Leandra has had a word or two with her about it. He'd push her to pace herself, but she cannot stop now. Bethany rarely allowed herself time to stop working, stop progressing, stop to think about the choices she's made - good, bad, or otherwise.

"By Andraste, the _boys_ ," at this, her eyes almost roll all the way back into her skull. See? Sass. "And I do mean boys because none of these children could be considered men. Do you know one of them actually wolf-whistled at Colette and I? That Nathaniel Howe, I swear..." 

Hawke can feel the sharpness of his stare, the way his back bristles at the news. Can he help it if he's become a bit over-protective around boys? 

Bethany had always been beautiful, at least, to him. After she rid herself of her braces and stopped dying her hair ridiculous colors, most males found themselves in agreement with her brother. Some chose to show their newfound affection through less appropriate methods.

"Is there anyone I ought to beat up? Or rather, anyone I should sic Carver on? I would do it myself, but I believe Aveline might actually kill me, and we both know how Carver loves to show off his muscles. Especially to Merrill."

She snorts. "How kind of you." With a roll of her eyes and another piece of pancakes consumed, she continues, "no, I don't think there's anyone I'd like you to maim...yet, anyways. Although there are a few who might be toeing the line..."

Hawke knows his next question could trigger a land mine or two, but really, what fun was a family luncheon without invasive personal questions? Besides, Bethany seemed perfectly fine starting off with one. Why shouldn't Garrett?

"Are there any boys I should know about? Any that you're... _interested_ in?"

Bethany's eyes never leave his as she blows the steam away from her hot chocolate. So, she had expected that. And here he thought he'd had her. "Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that question?" Oh no. How wrong he he was. She'd had him all along. "Or are you not as interested in this Fenris as I had heard?"

He doesn't even want to begin wondering what rumors she'd been fed, by Isabela, surely. If Isabela had leaked his secrets (a completely likely scenario, given Isabela's antics and their apparently-blossoming friendship), then all hope was lost. He had to think of something quick. Divert attention - retreat!

"...I asked you first."

"Strange, I specifically remembering asking you when we first walked in, before you blew me off."

"Is that so? I don't recall."

"Well then, why don't I call Isabela and find out for myself? I'm sure she'd _love_ to spill all the details about your little crush."

Checkmate. Game, set, and match. Bethany - 1, Garrett - 0.

With a sigh, Garrett reclines in his seat. Drawing his arms against his chest, he rather resembles a pouting child. His kid sister, on the other hand, triumphs on the other side with a smug grin set perfectly into place on pursed lips. Victory always was the sweetest fruit for her.

"How about we strike a deal?" Garrett suggests. Bethany's eyebrow raises as she sips her cocoa, but says nothing. At least he has struck her interest. "You tell me all about your love life - or lack of it - and I'll explain to you how I am most certainly not interested in a relationship with Fenris." Or lie about it.

The scoff she emits suggests disbelief, but she does not back down from a deal. Never has, never will. "Have it your way. I'm sure your information will be much more interesting than mine, after all."

For a moment, Bethany lowers her head to the dishes before them. Rarely did she ever withdraw within herself. Garrett wonders whether she too had inherited the Hawke family tradition of using humor to avoid vulnerability. If something _had_ happened to her, she would sooner make a joke than admit it outright.

She stays silent, simply plucking a stray blueberry off of her plate and rolling it back and forth before she accidentally squishes it sighs. "College can be...confusing." 

Had she not seemed so serious, Hawke would have scoffed. Of course it can be - it was college. Confusion came free with the loans and crushing sense of self-loathing. 

"I tend to feel out of place amongst my friends. So many of them shirk their work to party with the prettiest person they can find, while I stay home and study. They all nag me for it, too. 'Bethy, you ought to get out more', 'Bethy, is that book your boyfriend?', 'Bethy, the boys will all be gone by the time you're ready to commit'." She stops, exhaling. 

Hawke can see the slightest shaking in her hands, a trait she tried to hide at all times. No Hawke wanted to reveal their flaws. "Plenty of people have expressed interest in me, conceited as that sounds, but none of them...well, none of them can amount to what I want."

_None of them surpass Sebastian_. That's what she wants to say, words almost slipping off of her tongue. She need not speak them. Hawke has heard them before, and never wants to hear them again. He knows she suffers in silence.

Garrett reaches out to take her quivering hand, massaging the top of it with his thumb. Unspoken appreciation passes over her expression, but still her lips shiver. No tears form, for she has likely cried them all out long beforehand. Hell, she's cried for far worse things than this. Still, that doesn't stop the ever-present doubt from whispering to her at all times.

"You don't have to be over him yet, Bethy."

Her face resigns itself to frowning. Not her usual frown, the one disapproving of Hawke's caustic sarcasm or Carver's apathetic attitude towards basic hygiene, but a bitter thinning of the lips that blamed life for its transgressions against her. He had always hated that face, for he had seen it too many a time. It had dimmed her eternal radiance to a meager glow.

Still, she chooses to shake it off, as she always does. "Thank you, brother." Slowly, she retracts her hand, the same fingers now working to rub away the headache forming behind her temples. "But please, let's change the subject, can we? Off of me, anyways - you still owe me. Tell me about your life. Your love life, specifically. I'm certain it can't be less interesting than mine."

Oh, how he wished he could bet money on that.

"You've read my article, yes? The one I published last year for Aveline?" Bethany nods. "Of course you did. I'm sure mother smothered you and every other relative in a hundred mile radius with it a thousand times. I'd feel bad for Gamlen, but, well. It's Gamlen." Bethany bites her lip to stop from laughing outright at that, swatting his hand for such a rude remark. No regrets.

"I wouldn't exactly say Fenris and I hit it off. He seemed rather distant, hostile even, towards me."

"I can't imagine why."

"I'm sorry, would you like me to tell this story or would you rather I bring up Seba--"

"--alright, alright. You're no fun."

"As I was saying," Hawke takes a second to clear his throat - for dramatic effect, not function, "we met again at Aveline's First Day Eve Party. Remember? The one you neglected to come to?" Bethany scowls at him, but says nothing, clearly finished interrupting. "Unlike _you_ , Fenris came, although Maker only knows why. We ended up talking for quite some time. Before Isabela barged in, of course. She invited him to the Hanged Man the next day for our First Day Celebration. Y'know, Hangover Day."

Bethany groans at that nickname. Not that it was necessarily _wrong_ , but still. Inappropriate.

"Surprisingly, he showed up. I hadn't thought he ever would. Apparently, Isabela's drinks are enough to sway anyone. Normally it takes her putting out a little more than that." Bethany's cocoa almost comes out of her nose, but she composes herself enough to cover her mouth in time. She wants to scorn Hawke, he knows she does, but she cannot manage to stop giggling enough to do so. "Sorry, sorry, I couldn't resist. He spent the night with us--"

Bethany's eyes instantly lighten.

"...in a group setting without any physical contact beyond what Isabela regularly engages in with guests."

That hopeful light now fades away into obscurity.

"Varric, of course, introduced himself. Gave him the grand tour, as you saw, and apparently, he's hoping to join in our expeditions to help the people of Kirkwall."

His sister's eyes widen for a moment, setting down her utensils and staring with complete concentration. "Really? That's...surprising." Absent-minded stirring of hot chocolate takes the place of their conversation.

Garrett furrows his brow. "How so? Plenty of people in the Deep Roads started out as someone we saved from a burning building or helped out of a tree or something."

"They're not cats, Garrett," Bethany shakes her head. Hesitation stunts her speech for but a moment. "I suppose I'm simply surprised someone would make the effort to actually join our team. Sure, we've saved hundreds of lives, but that doesn't mean the size of our team reflects that. Most people...well, they tend to forget what we've done. They get what they wanted and move on. To see someone stay is a pleasant surprise, that's all."

No one would argue with that. No one _could_ argue with that. Through their efforts, hundreds had their lives restored. Hundreds more escaped calamity because of their intervention. But when it came to thanking them? To repaying debts? Such seemed foreign in Kirkwall. People demanded more, but never appreciated what they had already done for them.

"What can I say? Fenris is special." He means it, too. Sure, broodiness, scathing remarks and the occasional undue reluctance to trust came with the package, but something about Fenris stood out from the mundane. Even Isabela noticed it - and getting her to notice anything beyond a body meant something...didn't it?

"To you?"

Hawke merely blinks back at her.

"To you, Garrett. Is he special to _you_?"

Hawke's lips part, about to blurt out an objection before he can think. After a momentary consideration, he decides to stop himself. Teeth nibble on the bottom lip instead, shutting his thoughts tight inside.

What _did_ Fenris mean to Garrett? 

At this point, Hawke had interviewed more than a handful of folks throughout Kirkwall. There had been stories shared, tears shed, bread broken together. Each encounter left a distinctive mark on Garrett's heart, uniquely bettering his life.

On the other hand, Fenris' interview consisted of Hawke fumbling through questions, Fenris aware of him doing so, and retaliating with unrestrained aggression. Nothing about their meeting should have left Garrett with so much as a positive thought about the man. Except it had. Perhaps those last words spoken before they parted stirred something deep within him.

Perhaps, at last, he'd finally found someone who wanted - no, _needed_ \- to fight for others, too.

Unable to vocalize his opinions - and certainly not interested in sharing the entirety of his sappy internal monologue with his sister of all people - Hawke settles simply on, "in a sense...yes."

"Wow. How descriptive." It isn't the answer she was hoping for, if the look on her face expresses anything, but she does not continue her prying beyond one more question. "Then let me ask you one last thing: beyond Isabela's teasing - and mine, too, of course - is there any interest between you two? Well, at least as far as you can tell."

Garrett pauses, scratching at his beard to stall. It seems a scrap of bacon entangled itself inside of his beard. A perfect distraction to buy him time to think!

"It's no small secret that he's rather attractive," Bethany halts him with a snort. More than half of Thedas could see that. "Thank you for your ladylike interjection, sister. As I was saying, attractive he may be, but you and I both know better than to base a relationship solely on looks nowadays. We've been hurt enough by that."

Bethany's eyes shine with something more than her usual radiance, a somber understanding that passes between the two of them. It burns not for herself, but from within for him. A tiny smile tugs at her lips, and she nods.

"Interest? Yes, I suppose so - as much as I am interested in topics I know nothing about or friends I have yet to make. Romance? _Love_? Absolutely not. Not yet, if ever, at this point." Hawke stares at the remains of his coffee. Slowly, he swirls the liquid around in the cup, spotting the remains of grounds that stick to the bottom. "But, if possible...I would rather like to know him better. Does that satiate you, sister dearest?"

Bethany's smile stretches across her face, equal parts genuine and mischievous. "I think that's the most sensible answer you've said all day, brother." Before plopping her final piece of pancakes into her mouth, she adds, "it might be the _only_ sensible thing you've said all day, actually."

Hawke snags the sliver of breakfast left on her fork before she can bring it to her mouth and throws it into his own. Bethany's jaw drops to the tabletop, aghast at his actions. He bears no remorse.

The next few minutes are spent arguing over Garrett's theft, whether or not Bethany now deserves the rest of Garrett's breakfast (which she does not want, but it's the principle of these things), and who will pay for the check. Bethany demands Garrett do so as recompense. Garrett had already assumed he was paying, but pretends to bite the bullet anyways. Better to guilt her.

"What does he do for a living, anyways?" Bethany asks suddenly, stowing away her wallet inside of her handbag. Hawke stares, unsure of who she spoke of, before she clarifies. "I'm talking about Mr. Special. He must have some sort of occupation or hobby or _something_ to keep him busy. You ought to know - what does he do?"

"A tattoo artist, apparently."

Bethany rolls her eyes, retrieving her phone. "Surprise, surprise." She doesn't even bother to glance at Garrett, instead tapping away at her screen. "Of course he is - have you seen him?"

Hawke cringes, memories of their first meeting resurfacing. An eternal reminder of a painful past. To others, his tattoos instilled a sense of awe and wonder. To Fenris, those tattoos sang tantalizing hymns that haunted him in his sleep. It didn't help that everyone's stares constantly reminded him of their presence. 

Hawke supposed he ought to stop ogling him. Then again, maybe not.

"I _have_ been wanting to get one, you know..."

Bethany's suggestion snaps him out of his reverie. Fraternal instincts immediately kick into overdrive, brow furrowing as he glances over at her far-away expression. Or were they maternal instincts? Which were the ones where you protected your relative from otherwise harmless decisions for the sake of their supposed safety?

"Don't tell me you want a--"

"--I'm not getting a tramp stamp, Garret."

"Is it--"

"--no, it's not a dreamcatcher."

"Then what about a--"

"--not a Chant verse, either."

"And absolutely not a--"

"--if you say hawk, I might rethink that tramp stamp."

Bethany rolls up the sleeve of her cardigan to reveal the blank canvas of her arm. "All I want is a simple circle. Somewhere small, where I could hide it if work required it."

"A circle?" Hawke could scarcely guess at why in the world she would want that of all things. Most girls her age got tattoos of hearts and music notes and feathers that dissipated into birds. Ridiculous, sure, but ordinary. All she would have needed was a Starbucks cup and a pair of Ugg boots to accent her appearance.

"Do you remember that old Andrastian hymn we used to sing at Satinalia time - 'Will the Circle be Unbroken?'"

No, he does not. Or rather, he does, but vaguely. Truthfully, he only attended Chantry services when Leandra insisted upon it. Satinalia served as the only time their family visited faithfully. Leandra could recite every song from memory, while Bethany struggled through verses and Hawke and Carver made up their own, much more amusing, lyrics to suit their mood. Leandra did not approve.

Hawke believed in the Maker, really he did, but he also believed that even Andraste herself would have fallen asleep in Chantry services nowadays. Really, he ought to ask Sebastian if they had ever thought of modernizing services. Or at least, you know, include something so that the members of the congregation don't choose to meet their Maker then and there. 

All he remembers of Bethany's hymn is its strange relation to death. Supposedly, the composer's parents perished in an unfortunate accident and the song somehow became mutually inclusive with the death of Andraste. He still never understood how that happened. Leandra loved the lyrics, Malcom the melody. Hawke never liked that hymn then, and he hates it all the more now.

Still, he understands Bethany's interest. Better that than a phallic symbol on her foot. Isabela still regretted that one. She also still can't remember when she got it.

Hawke meets Bethany's gaze, and immediately knows trouble is afoot. The brightness of Bethany's eyes spoke of one of three options - her perpetual sense of joy, the warmth of her compassion, or the spark inside that lights upon hatching an idea you will _never_ be able to back out of. Garrett fears for the latter.

"Why don't we get tattoos together?"

Option C it is.

"Silly me, I forgot about all those times I talked about getting another tattoo!" Hawke's sarcasm typically cuts through his sister's defenses, but she seems oddly calm this time. Too calm.

"Forgotten already? I don't know how you could have. According to Isabela, you told Fenris you needed some 'new ink' at Aveline's the other night." Bethany clicks her tongue as Garrett's face falls.

Bethany - 2. Garrett - 0.

He hadn't the slightest idea how Isabela overheard that portion of their conversation. What, had she bugged his cell phone? Not impossible, not for Isabela. For all Hawke knew, she could have been lurking right behind him the whole time and he would never have noticed. His attention lay solely in front of him.

"Since you didn't get me anything for Satinalia, you'll surely do this for your little sister, won't you, Garrett?" Her eyes widen to the size of saucers as her lip juts out to greet him. Ugh. Puppy dog eyes. Those were only cute on actually puppies and moody men with a secretly soft side to them.

...wait, was he describing Fenris? Maker's breath.

"Hold on a minute. What happened to the painting I purchased for you? That one of Orlais from...Rhodes, or whoever it is you're obsessed with?" He paid a high price for that painting! You wouldn't believe how much a piece of paper with some paint splashed on it costs nowadays.

Besides, Bethany didn't need to know it was a replica.

With a groan, she at last relents. "Fine, fine." She stews in silence for but a second, clearly concocting some sort of plan. This might even be worse. "Well then, can I request an advance on my birthday present?"

Hawke acquiesces, even though he is certain she will conveniently forget this conversation by the time her birthday really does roll around. Bethany immediately envelops him in a hug, squealing all the while like a schoolgirl. The girl could shatter glasses with that voice.

Noticing the lunch rush starting early within the restaurant, the two decide to sneak out with a simple wave towards Larana and a pile of cash left on their table.

"Thank the Maker - I really wanted to do something exciting before I'm stuck studying for fifteen straight weeks."

For a moment, Hawke assumes she meant the restaurant. _Odd_ , he thinks, clicking his seatbelt into the buckle, _I couldn't exactly consider the Spoiled Princess an adventure_. Hawke had been just about to step on the gas pedal when the true meaning of her words hit him. She doesn't mean soon. She doesn't mean this week. She means now - right now. "You don't intend to get tattoos _now_ , do you?"

"Well of course I do." The statement comes out as plain as day. What, had she forgotten her promise to spend the day doing as he desired? Not that he minded - being with Bethany more than made up for plans gone awry - although he would feign offense, if only to fluster her. "What? Big plans for today I'm keeping you from? Grocery shopping? Club hopping? Hot date with a tattooed stranger?"

Garrett groans. "Fine, fine, have it your way." In truth, he had hoped to spend today passed out on the couch while he assured himself he'd get to the gym before they met at the Hanged Man later but having absolutely no intention in doing so. This? Much more interesting. Also much more exhausting. "Did you consider that I haven't the slightest clue what to permanently etch onto my skin?"

Bethany had, clearly, for that smirk slipped back into place. Isabela's influence poured out of every pore. "You could always ask Fenris for a heart. You could even include your initials! GH + F..." She pauses. "Well, maybe just 'Fenris Hawke' instead."

Bethany's fit of giggles drowns out Garrett's additional groaning. "Yes, because he won't think that's--" Hawke stops himself. "Don't tell me that not only do you to intend to go now, but you intend on me taking you to _Fenris'_ tattoo parlor?"

She stares blankly back at him.

"I don't even know where he works!"

"I know you don't - I do."

Without further explanation, Bethany retrieves her phone from her bag and shoves it in his face.

  
  
  


So, _that's_ who she was texting at the table. And here he thought she was torturing Carver or indulging Isabela or blocking Sebastian's number from her contacts like a good little girl. What happened to his sweet sister? Who was this troublemaker?

If even Aveline bowed to Bethany, Hawke had no chance of resisting defeat. 

"And when Fenris asks how we knew where we worked?" 

"Blame Isabela."

Now _that_ was a plan he could get behind!

Bethany plugs the address from Aveline into her GPS, only to frown upon seeing its destination. Darktown. Rarely did they ever attempt to trek through those streets. If Kirkwall was a cesspool of crime, then Darktown was its sewage system. From petty theft to organized drug rings, this district had it all. Garrett forbid Bethany from ever entering alone or in anything but her frumpiest sweater. With a weapon. And 911 on speed dial. 

To think that Fenris worked here was...unsettling, to say the least. He could not have imagined Aveline approving of this idea, not at all.

Thankfully, the Hawkemobile was an absolute piece of crap. Less trashy than the other vehicles here? Perhaps, but not by much. No one would want to steal the car with a dented side, a broken mirror and more bumper stickers than was likely legal in Kirkwall.

Finding Fenris proved itself an impossible task all on its own. Getting signal in Darktown? Unlikely. Bethany's GPS led them down one too many a dark alley before Hawke found the general location of the storefront and led them on, Bethany tucked safely into his side at all times.

Eventually, their destination lay within reach. A neon sign illuminates the words "Taliesen's Tattoos". Although one would never know that at night, since half of the lights had blown out. They likely wouldn't be replaced anytime soon. An "open" sign hangs lopsided against the front door, but the curtains appear to be drawn for whatever reason. Just as Hawke grasps the doorknob, a pair of voices - one sultry and Antivan, the other deep and Tevinter - resonate from inside.

"Oh my, Fenris. I hadn't known you were so talented with your hands."

"You would know even more if you stopped moving around so much, Zevran."

"Forgive me. I hadn't realized you could be so...stimulating."

"Do you always talk so much when people do this to you?"

"Me? Maker, no. But it's too much fun to tease you. You really do make the most amusing expressions..."

Garrett and Bethany exchange glances. Bethany's screams _for the love of all that is holy, don't you dare open that door right now_. Hawke's, on the other hand? _I have to open that door right now_.

Without further ado, Garrett swings wide the door to the tattoo parlor, peeking his head inside. Bethany simply shoves her face into the back of his hoodie. Garrett swears he hears her repeat the Chant of Light, or at least what she remembers of it.

Inside, a currently unoccupied front desk sits adjacent to a wall of pictures, presumably designs to choose from for the convenience of customers. The entirety of the store could not span more than the length of a walk-in closet, but in Darktown, this could be considered a luxury. At least it was clean. No doubt Fenris' doing. A row of recliner chairs sits crammed against a wall of mirrors, where their friends lie in wait for them.

Zevran occupies one of the chairs. He, of course, has chosen to recline as far back as the chair could possibly go. Had the man  
weighed any more than a feather, the chair likely would have collapsed beneath his weight. The enticing expression on his face remains reserved for Fenris, that is, until Garrett arrives. 

Fenris stands with his back turned to the two of them, focusing solely on the task at hand. Today, he dons a tight black v-neck that compliments the jeans that strain against his thighs. With Fenris leaning over Zevran, his shirt lifts just enough for Hawke to spot surprisingly firm back muscles and a peak of briefs. He tries not to focus on those, really he does, but he can't help himself.

"Am I interrupting?"

Fenris spins around instantly, unaware he had an audience. His eyes burn with rage for but a moment, lips curled into a snarl, before softening upon noticing who has entered. Those same eyes trace the direction of Garrett's gaze before Hawke himself can pry his eyes away. Both blush. Neither admits it.

With a scoff, Fenris steps aside to reveal the newly-tattooed Zevran. "He wishes."

"Can I help it if my newest employee is so enticingly talented?"

"New employee?" Garrett turns his attention to Fenris, but it is Zevran who responds.

"Ah, yes. I haven't had the chance to tell you yet. I'm rather...acquainted with the owner, Taliesen." Acquainted seemed too simple a word for what they likely were. Hawke didn't even want to imagine it. "I'm standing in as the acting manager while he Taliesen remains...indisposed." No questions asked, no answers needed. Like Isabela, mystery remained the better option with Zevran.

"Anyways, I found myself in the police station one night," for likely illegal reasons, no doubt, "when I stumbled on into dear Aveline's office. Fenris happened to be bent over the office desk, signing a number of papers. After hearing his story, I offered him a position at the parlor under me. I assumed he knew his way around tattoos, and he did not deny it. I placed him under me immediately."

Fenris stands, arms crossed and directly avoiding contact with Zevran. A strange sight for an employee, but typical for Fenris. From the expression on his face, one would think Zevran to be debasing Fenris' reputation.

"Working for Zevran, huh?" Hawke questions, the lilt in his voice all too evident. "Must be interesting."

Fenris scoffs. "You don't know the half of it."

Zevran recoils, as if receiving a shot to the heart, but brushes it aside when he sees neither side continues playing along. They're too busy wrapped up with one another to notice. "Well, gentlemen - and lady - this was a wonderful surprise, but I'm afraid I must depart. I have to see a man about some riding lessons. Farewell, my friends." With a bow to them, and a blown kiss to Bethany, Zevran disappears down the city streets.

Bethany crinkles her nose. "Riding lessons? Zevran never struck me as the equestrian type..."

Oh poor, sweet Bethany. Almost as bad as Merrill. "He'd sooner ride his teacher than a horse."

The skin of his sister's face flushes white as a wraith. The concept slowly sinks in, leaving her feeling sick and shamed all at once. He assumes Zevran might be feeling the same later tonight. Then again, it was Zevran. So probably not. Fenris, however, releases a genuine laugh from his position at her side.

"Are you...here to get a tattoo?" Fenris inquires. Somehow, he seems a little hopeful. 

Hawke explains the situation, to which Fenris nods understandingly. Bethany eagerly introduces herself, seeing as how Hawke forgot to do so in the excitement of seeing his "friend" again. Fenris shakes her hand, reluctantly, seeming surprised. "This is your...sister?" 

Hawke affirms his suspicions. 

"I...see." 

"Something wrong?" 

Fenris shuffles about nervously for a moment, fidgeting about like a child. "I suppose I presumed too much. You see, when we met at the Deep Roads, I noticed you two winking at one another. I only assumed that you two might have been...intimate."

What does one say, when someone accuses him of being intimate with their own sister? Hawke's face pinches itself inward as tightly as it can. Behind him, Bethany gags - and might actually be getting sick, from the sound of it. 

"I-- Andraste, _no_! No, not at all, not whatsoever, never!"

"Please, sister, continue to tell him how disgusting you find me."

She slugs him in the arm, still reeling from the revelation, but he only chuckles. Aww, how cute. She thinks she can hurt him. Adorable.

Fenris, on the other hand, blushes from head to toe. Each cheek burns brighter than the other, and the shade somehow suits that tanned skin. Or so Hawke thinks. Still, the look he shoots Garrett seems relieved.

After a moment of consideration, a thought strikes him. "How did you two find me here?" 

In unison, the Hawkes answer, "Isabela."

Fenris nods in understanding. "I should have known." _You're welcome, Aveline - your reputation is spared_. "Are either of you ready to start?"

Bethany immediately hops into the seat, describing in detail what she would like for Fenris to mark her with. Although Hawke pays little attention, instead choosing to scour the wall for design ideas, he swears Fenris makes a few minor suggestions to which Bethany gleefully agrees to. 

After they are finished, Bethany nearly squeals in delight. She shoves her arm right into Hawke's face, asking him what he thinks. The design is much more intricate than what Bethany had described, and infinitely more impressive. Easy enough to conceal, but interesting enough to catch an onlooker's eye when exposed. Very clever, Fenris.

Bethany backs off, only for Fenris to ask if he's chosen a design. Hawke states he's unsure, and that _someone_ rushed him into this - Bethany shrugs, pretending she does not know who - and Hawke asks what Fenris thinks would look good on him. Both Bethany and Garrett know that's a subtle way of asking if Fenris thinks he'll look good, but Fenris seems not to notice.

"Any and all, I think." It's spoken so plainly, Hawke can't tell if he's flirting or if Fenris hasn't the slightest idea how to do so. He couldn't be serious! ...could he? 

"Even the unicorn?"

" _Especially_ the unicorn."

"What about this one?" Hawke points to a tattoo mounted high above them. A trio of sharp, scarlet lines, with one curved and a pair of bloodied waves underneath. 

"Ancient Tevene, or so I've been told." Fenris stands beside him. Their arms brush, but neither pulls away. "Most people don't care whether the translation's right or wrong, because no one in Kirkwall would know the difference". 

Pointing to the aforementioned tattoo, Hawke inquires as to its meaning. "...champion." 

"Perfect," Hawke muses aloud, "so long as the translation's correct, that is." Fenris chuckles, before assuring him it is.

Hawke seats himself in the chair, reclining somewhere between Bethany's choice of sitting straight up and Zevran's approach to leaning as far back as physically possible. 

Right before the needle touches his flesh, Fenris stops. Forests of green search through puddles of mud, irises scanning one another in concern. "Are you ready, Garrett?" 

No, he's not ready at all for Fenris' hands to be on him, and their faces to be awkwardly close for an undisclosed amount of time and for the possibility that Fenris might see him whimper like a child getting a shot when the ink shoots into him. "As I'll ever be." Well, it wasn't a lie.

Slowly, Fenris traces the design onto Hawke's arm. Hawke cringes at the touch, instinctively trying to retract his arm. Fenris pauses, eyes widen. Garrett mutters an apology, blaming Bethany, to which Fenris smirks and continues. 

In the course of the process, Fenris speaks only once to ask if Hawke is okay. He's still not, but he lies through his teeth and claims the contrary. Behind Fenris, something flickers across Bethany's face that Hawke does not recognize. That is, right before she retrieves her phone and secretly starts taking photos of them. Presumably to send to Isabela. Little brat.

"I don't suppose you intend to send those to Isabela," Fenris states, not even glancing the other way. All the same, Bethany freezes. How did he know? "Whether she sent you here or not, I doubt she'd take kindly to me standing so close to her man." With a smirk, he whispered only loud enough for Hawke to hear, "then again, perhaps a little vengeance would be in order."

The entire parlor falls silent for a moment.

That is, before Bethany bursts out laughing so hard that her phone clatters to the floor. The poor girl stands doubled over, unable to breath, let alone save her cell. Fenris for the life of him cannot understand what he said to cause such a reaction. "Did you think I was kidding?"

It takes a moment for Bethany to compose herself. She wipes the tears from her eyes with delicate fingers. Her first few attempts at speech are broken up by lingering sputters of laughter that make her speech incomprehensible. Eventually, she chokes out a semi-coherent response. "N-no, that's why it's even funnier! That you would think -- Hawke and...Isabela!? Maker, no!"

Fenris flips his face back towards Hawke. Lips part and shut, part and shut, part and shut. Clearly, he hasn't the slightest clue what he has done now. Fenris fumbles about as badly as Bethany, "Then you're...she's not...? I just assumed. A-at the party..." 

Ah, so that was it. Isabela slinking her arm around his shoulder, lounging on him like a lawnchair, calling him 'love'. For the love of Andraste...

"Whatever preconceived notions you have of my relationships, please stop them." First his sister, and now his best friend? Fenris sure seemed interested...or cautious. Or both. Overactive imagination, much? "Isabela treats all of her friends like that. Or at least, those she considers safe to do so with. Sebastian would likely lecture her, and Aveline might actually knock her teeth in. She knows I'm harmless...mostly." 

Fenris simply shakes his head, unable to even form words. 

"Isabela is my best friend, Fenris, but she's not my girlfriend. Nor is anyone else you might be thinking I am involved with. Maker, I can't imagine what kind of man I must be to date her." _Especially considering I spent my entire night flirting with_ you.

"I...cannot say I'm not relieved." Fenris smiles then, a little too wide to not mean something more than most would assume. Relieved that Garrett's integrity remains intact, or relieved that he's not currently taken? Hawke hoped for both.

Bethany, however, looks indignant at their comments. "Oh come now! She's not _that_ bad."

Silence.

"...okay, well, she is - but that doesn't give you the right to talk about her like that!"

Neither Fenris nor Garrett try to protest that point, able as they would be to do so. Fenris merely returns to tattooing Hawke. Even Garrett realizes that there might be less space between them and more skin-on-skin contact than before their prior conversation. By the grin on her face, Bethany knows it, too.

"I believe I'm finished, Garrett."

Is it just him, or does Fenris sound a tad disappointed at that?

Garrett slowly rises from the recliner, stretching out his aching muscles as he does so. Fenris stares at Garrett. Bethany stares at Fenris. Everyone is wearing the same stupid grin, and assuming no one else notices.

The quality of the tattoo could only be considered masterful. Not a spot out of place. In Darktown, you would be lucky if the ink didn't poison you. Spelling the words right was a miracle, let alone in a foreign language.

"Do you...like it?" Fenris speech sounds almost bashful. All he needed to do was shuffle his feet and wear a big ol' blush, and he'd practically be a Disney dwarf.

"I couldn't love it more." It's the truth. Spontaneous decision? Perhaps. But he has regretted too may of those in the past. This one would always be cherished. "It's perfect."

Fenris' grin reaches his ears at that, but he hides it beneath his hair as he turns towards the register. Hawke retrieves his wallet, but Fenris waves him away. "My treat." Garrett shoves the money at him, not taking no for an answer, but finds Fenris to be more stubborn even than himself. "Zevran already insisted. Unless you'd like to repay him in other ways?"

Hawke shook his head once, finding something hard to swallow in his throat. Bethany nearly choked at the thought. The fierceness of Fenris' stare eased then.

"Good...you're welcome."

"At least let us pay you back by driving you to the Hanged Man tonight!" It is Bethany's suggestion, not Hawke's but he knows it's not as innocent as it seems. "If you're alright stopping for coffee, of course. Garrett could drink gallons of it."

Fenris seems to consider this for a moment. "What about work?"

Bethany simply shrugs. "We can wait around while you finish your shift. We Hawkes wouldn't mind keeping you company, would you, Garrett?" Funny, how that subject went from a plural "we" to a singular "Garrett". _Honestly, Bethy, you're a school teacher in training - for English no less. Shouldn't you know how to construct a sentence, suggestive intentions aside?_

"Mind? It would make my day." Smooth, Garrett, real smooth. Fenris seems to approve.

Time seems to slip past them inside the parlor. Bethany sits atop the counter and asks about all sorts of stories Fenris must have with customers. He tells them all - of what appeared to be a prostitute who attempted to pay through their "special services", of an orphanage owner who looked far too older for tattoos but insisted otherwise, and of a noblewoman from Orlais who would have seemed far too important to fit in here if not for the sense of secrecy that shrouded her in mystery. The Hawkes cannot contain their laughter nor their interest in his stories, his voice, in _him_. Bethany seems just as mesmerized as Garrett.

Customers rarely venture inside, likely too intimidated by its downtrodden appearance to enter. That, or the threat of ink poisoning. Both entirely viable, valid reasons to stay far, far away. The lone customer came in the form of a veterinarian, of all things, with the most melodic voice and striking white locks. She and Fenris bonded momentarily over their mutual hair colors, before Fenris continued not to say a word to her for the duration of her tattooing. Typical.

As soon as Fenris flips the store sign to "Closed", the trio leaves Taliesen's (and Darktown) behind them. Good riddance. Without asking for other opinions, Bethany plugs her favorite coffee shop - Refuge, the coziest café one could find this side of Kirkwall - into her GPS and sets them on course. 

Fenris seems pleased by the atmosphere, but rather unimpressed by the coffee. With the question of "trust me?" left hanging in the air, Hawke takes Fenris' cup and combines it with a handful of other ingredients left lying about the condiments area. Fenris glances at the mixture hesitantly, but Hawke asks again, and Fenris complies without answering. Finally, those chapped lips curled into a smile. Small still, but better than a grimace. Garrett was no Isabela, by any means, but he'd had his fair share of coffee. Even amateur blends bowed to his knowledge.

The three talk - well, Bethany does most of the talking, followed by Garrett's quick-witted interjections and Fenris' occasional comments - of simple things: of the weather and good food and problematic customers. Little joys...and troubles, too, but ones overshadowed by pleasantries. Everything proceeds so casually, as though they had known one another their whole lives.

Soon enough, the sun sets over the horizon, casting a somber light across the cafe's interior. The three realize they need to depart if they are to make it to Bartrand's in time. With one more Americano to go (for Garrett, of course), the trio set off to regroup with the rest of Varric's crew at the Grotto.

Sliding into place beside Isabela with Fenris swift to slip into place beside him, Garrett already felt his friend's presence at his side. "I like your ink," she whispers, mischief lacing her words, "and I have half a mind to think he does, too." Half of Hawke's mind hopes so, too.

"Is everyone here now?" Varric scans the crowd, noticing their presence. "So you made it after all, eh, Tattoos? Perfect. You'll be interested in this one." Without further explanation, Varric distributes copies of official documents to every person seated around them. Well, technically, Varric hands them to Merrill who eagerly does so in place of his laziness.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Get ready - we have a slave trader to track down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am eternally grateful for everyone who has read and reviewed this work!  
> Special shoutout to Neuro707, GothicPrincessWitch, and 170713 for leaving kudos on the last chapter! 
> 
> If you're interested, [here](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/3d/8c/74/3d8c74cd50f81d24113144772379981a.jpg) is Bethany's tattoo and [here](http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/dragonage/images/9/92/Hawkeconcept.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20100724164013) is Garrett's (the one on the right)!
> 
> Next chapter, we'll delve more into the work of the Kirkwall Crew as they take on their first real task together with Fenris. Please keep your eyes and ears open for more! If you found any of the cameos I mentioned, I'd love to see which ones you recognized in the comments. Or hey, even if you're willing to talk about the story, FenHawke, or Dragon Age in general, drop me a message! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much for reading through this chapter!  
> I hope that this was to your liking, and that you'll stay with me throughout the rest of the journey. I promise - things will get better for lil' Fenris...eventually. Maybe later rather than sooner. But at some point. Probably.


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